The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  “Is there anything left to rob? Saffron Valley and the other villages are too poor to steal from.”

  “The villas of the nobles. We have been gathering information about them all through the summer. I know which ones are worth robbing and which ones are just empty ruins. We’ll raid them all at the same time.” He punches his fist against his palm. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

  The plan strikes me as far too ambitious for Aelle to come up with by himself. It is a product of a complex, experienced, military mind. No doubt it was his father’s idea. The entire summer campaign of raids, robberies and extortion was leading up to this, a direct assault at the heart of any power the Britons still hold over this land: the homes of the nobles. If they can’t feel safe in their own villas, where can they feel safe? The spectre of rebellion will haunt them out of the countryside and into the fortified towns and cities. It will be as Aelle said, the Britons will be trapped behind their walls, trapped by their own fear, never realising just how small and insignificant Aelle’s force truly is.

  And one of those homes is my own. Ariminum may no longer be what it once was under Master Pascent’s rule, but it is still a well-kept villa, with stores full of goods and pots of coins still buried in secret hiding places. Paulinus’s church, with its brand new stock of Mass paraphernalia will, no doubt, be an additional prize worth making a detour for. Does Aelle know the villa belongs to me? If he does, he’s not letting it show.

  Either way, the time for idleness is over. Word must reach Londin about the bandits’ plan. With enough warning, the combined forces of Beadda’s Iutes and Wortimer’s soldiers should be ready to crush Aelle between them when he moves to attack.

  “I would go talk to the Iutes now,” I tell him. “The sooner we strike a deal, the better prepared they will be to help us when the time comes.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “How many men do you think you could bring to my side?”

  “There are twenty warriors with Beadda. The best you’ve ever seen. They will go where their Gesith tells them.”

  “I know Beadda’s men all too well. They are blessed by Donar. We would have overrun Saffron Valley a long time ago if it wasn’t for them.” He nods. “Very well. You can take two of my Hiréd with you. Anyone except Offa.”

  “I also want to take that new boy, Waerla.”

  “The spy? What for?”

  “To watch him more closely. He may start cracking under pressure. Say something he shouldn’t.”

  He looks down the shaft to see if it’s perfectly straight. “Fine. He’s your responsibility. I expect you’ll only be gone a couple of days, anyway.”

  “It won’t take any longer than necessary.”

  He nods and waves towards the sunken storehouses. “Before you go, pick up some gifts for Beadda from the treasury. You know what he likes better than I do.”

  Once again, I punish my feet traversing the unending labyrinth of hidden paths, animal tracks, secret passages and pointlessly winding trails. Aelle may have learned to trust me enough to share with me his battle plans, but not enough to let me discover the easy route back to his main base. The two men he’s agreed to grant me as companions are deliberately poor guides. The way back to civilisation takes far longer than it should, and by the end of the first evening we are still in the receding oak forest, on top of some balding, heath-smothered hill, surrounded by similar tawny, smooth, rounded hills spreading in every direction, like a gathering of silent priests. The vastness of Andreda stretches morose and unyielding to the south, while not far to the north rises a ridge of greenish sand marking the border of the Downs. The woods grow sparse there, yielding to the once-settled lands stretching along the Pilgrim’s Way.

  “How much further to go?” I ask, exasperated, as I watch them proceeding to set up camp for the night. “We should already be at Verica’s by now.”

  “We’re not going to Verica’s,” one of the men replies. “Too many wealas there these days. We’re crossing the Downs on the Ridge of Yews, between the stone roads. We’re heading straight for Beaddingatun tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! I wasn’t expecting us to get there so soon. I need to adjust my plans. I was hoping we’d reach the settled lands before heading for the Iute village. It would’ve made things a lot easier for me. But the Saxons are too clever. The route they’ve chosen will keep us away from populated areas and well-trodden trails almost until we’ve reached our target. By then it will be too late.

  I cannot let them reach Beaddingatun with me. Not just because they might see through my ruse and report it to Aelle — but because I do not trust myself to convince the Iutes with them at my side. Seeing the mighty Saxon warriors in their full armour, hearing them tell the tales of glorious battle, might well sway some of Beadda’s Hiréd to join them, just as Aelle hoped — and just as Wortimer and his faction feared. It is a risk I’m not willing to take.

  As night falls and we set to sleep under the stars — none of us bothered to carry a tent, the night is warm enough by the campfire — I propose to take the early watch, but the Saxons dismiss the need.

  “Nobody ever comes here,” says one. “We’re the only ones who know this trail.”

  “What about wild beasts?”

  “I sleep light as a fox,” says the other. “Don’t worry! If a wolf comes, I’ll just chase it away.” He laughs, shaking his spear, before spreading out his blanket on the heather floor.

  The night soon grows cool on the exposed hilltop. The fire, untended, dies down as the moon rises over our heads in a comforting crescent. Shivering, I wrap myself tight in the blanket, regretting now the decision not to bring at least an extra roll of wool to shelter myself from the elements.

  A great owl hoots grimly in the oak tree. I hear Waerla thrashing from side to side in uneasy sleep. The other two lay silent, their breaths slow and regular. I wonder if they’re really asleep, or just pretending. Quietly, I reach for the knife strapped to my shin, and stand up.

  “Where are you off to?”

  The one who claimed to sleep like a fox has raised himself on one elbow. I can barely see his silhouette in the moonlight.

  “Take a piss,” I say. “This cold is getting to me.”

  “You sound like an old man.” The Saxon sniggers. “Just make sure you piss downwind.”

  No fox sleeps that light. Clearly, the outlaw was watching me all night. The other one must also be awake. My fists clench in futile anger. The two of them are among the best warriors in Aelle’s band — and likely in all of Pefen’s army. Without the element of surprise, I will have little chance against either of them, let alone both at the same time. And I can’t count on Waerla, even if I did manage to convince him to join me.

  I search with my foot for a suitably tangled heather root, then feign tripping on it. I moan loudly.

  “What is it, Aec?”

  I moan again. “Hel damn these heathers…! I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”

  “Can you stand?”

  I pretend to stand up and fall again. “Not easily. Mind helping me?”

  The Saxon groans and picks himself up. I see him approach warily. My hand tightens on the knife’s grip. He bends down and reaches to help me up. I grab his hand and pull down, while thrusting the knife up. I aim for his armpit, where the veins make the tightest knot. The weapon slides on the hem of a mail shirt — he hasn’t taken it off even to sleep — and enters deep into his body with a squelch. Blood spurts in my face in such force it almost chokes me. He grunts in surprise as his body hits the heather. I swirl the blade and stab again, this time in the throat, to shut him up.

  Too late. The other Saxon leaps up, sword in his hand, and heads in my direction. He calls his comrade’s name, and then, not hearing a response, calls for me. I lie flat on the ground, hidden in the tall heather, but he can hear his companion, gurgling and thrashing in agony. I can’t sneak away — the dried heath rustles with my every move. I can only wait in the darkness and pray to Donar, hoping to get
one more clean shot.

  The moon hides behind the clouds, rendering the entire scene pitch black. The Saxon stops, no more than three feet away from me, and assumes a fighting stance, stooping and bending his knees. I can’t hear the jangle of mail under his tunic. I hold my breath and shift the knife in my hand to tighten the grip.

  A scream cuts the darkness. The Saxon momentarily loses focus and looks back towards the camp, from where the scream originated. I leap up under his sword arm and thrust the knife with both hands into his chest. I miss his heart by an inch. The blade snaps on his sternum and cuts shallow. He groans and pushes me away; I grab his tunic and we tussle as he struggles to gain enough reach for the sword slash. I stab again with what’s left of the knife, aiming at his stomach now. I twist the blade inside his gut. His grip slackens on my shirt. He slides to his knees, coughing on blood. He swings the sword again, blindly. I gasp as the tip of the blade draws a deep line across my chest. I kick the Saxon in the face and finish him off with a slash to the jugular.

  I run back to the camp and crouch by Waerla.

  “What’s wrong? You were screaming.”

  “I — I’m sorry, young Master. It was a nightmare. I dreamt we were under attack.”

  “It was no dream. We’ve been found by a wealas patrol. The other two are fighting them off, but they won’t last long. Listen, do you think you can make your way back to the camp? You’ve spent a long time in these woods.”

  “I can try…”

  “Tell Aelle what happened here. I’m going to reach the Iute village on my own.”

  “What about those two —?”

  I help him up and thrust the bloodied Saxon sword in his hand. “If they’re not dead already, they will be soon. They’ve given their lives so that we could finish the mission. Don’t let their sacrifice be in vain, Waerla!”

  “Yes, young Master! I will not fail you.”

  He starts off in the direction of the fallen bandits. “Not there! The other side!” I call. He stumbles and trips, scrambles up, trips again and finally launches into an anxious, awkward run downhill. I wait until he’s far enough away before sitting down and raising my shirt to examine that last sword wound. It hurts more than a simple graze should. I run my hand down my chest and stomach. My skin feels cold and wet. In the light of the moon, fresh blood drips from my hand.

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE LAY OF BEADDA

  A frantic rattle of wheels on cobbles marks the arrival of a carriage, marked with the two crossed swords and a shepherd’s crook crest of Londin’s Bishop, at the villa’s courtyard. Before it comes to a full stop, Fastidius leaps out and runs up to the veranda.

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  He reaches to embrace me.

  “Careful!” I hiss and rub my chest. “It’s still sore.”

  “You’re wounded? Brother Isernin assured me you were safe and sound when he saw you!”

  “It’s only a scratch.” I raise my tunic to show him the bandages, soaked in willow bark and gentian ointment. “But in a painful place.”

  This is far from the truth, but I don’t need him to worry about me right now. I don’t know who put those bandages on me when they first found me, stumbling out of the forest in a feverish haze, after hours of aimless wandering, somewhere on the road between Saffron Valley and Beaddingatun. They did as good a job as they could, but it wasn’t enough. The wound continued to fester and seep. If somebody at the village hadn’t recognised me as the master of the nearby villa and brought me to Paulinus’ care, I would likely be dying by now of blood rot. Only the priest’s knowledge of Roman battle medicine saved my life.

  “Oh, I know how painful something like this can be,” he says with a chuckle, reminding me of a similar scar on his chest — the one I’ve given him.

  “The others are already here,” I say and lead Fastidius to the dining hall.

  The “others” are Paulinus, Beadda and a man I’ve only ever seen once before, Brutus, the centurion of Wortigern’s palace guards. The bronze armband gleams conspicuously on his shoulder. He and the Iute are giving each other uneasy stares.

  “I haven’t seen that many people here since father’s death,” remarks Fastidius. Somehow, I’m reminded of Master Pascent’s fiftieth birthday party, that Roman-themed feast all those years ago. I glance out the veranda. There will be no Nubian dancers today in the weed-filled garden, no wild boar carcass oozing fat onto the table — just bread, sheep’s cheese and some pickled olives from Paulinus’s pantry.

  “I was just about to tell everyone what I found out about Aelle’s warband,” I say.

  “Then you have found his camp?” says Brutus. He holds out the cheese knife as if it was a dagger.

  “I have seen it — but I wouldn’t be able to locate it easily. Or lead an army to it.”

  He raises his hands in exasperation. “Then what good was sending you on that mission! We should have dealt with the bandits ourselves while you were taking your forest vacation.”

  “Let the boy speak, Brutus,” says Paulinus, forcefully.

  “There’s no need for us to go to Aelle. He’s coming here. He’s about to launch a full-scale attack on the outpost — or what will seem like one, at least.”

  “A diversion,” guesses Fastidius. “But to what end?”

  I explain Aelle’s plan. Three of them grasp the implication immediately, but Beadda, not familiar with the court politics of Londin, needs explained the potential for chaos that would result from the bandit assault.

  “Can’t you just evacuate the nobles?” he asks.

  “I doubt we have enough time,” I say. “The attack seems imminent. Besides, it’s not the nobles Aelle wants, but their treasure.”

  Brutus scoffs. “Let them come. We will crush them.”

  “Like you crushed them at the Stone Bridge?” I ask.

  “We got caught by surprise. We will be ready now.”

  “You would need to spread your forces throughout the villas,” notes Fastidius. “How many men would you say Aelle can bring into this battle?”

  “A hundred, at least,” I say. “Maybe more.”

  “There are four villas worth robbing within a day’s march from here,” says Paulinus. “Including this one.”

  “It used to be twice as many when I was young,” remarks Brutus.

  “All the more reason why losing even one would have grave consequences,” says Fastidius. “You’d need a dozen men guarding each, to make sure it doesn’t fall.”

  “And a dozen more manning the outpost,” says Brutus. He draws five lines in the soft wood of the table with his cheese knife. He then draws a square around one of them. I squirm. It is not some precious antique — the decorated feasting table is hidden in storage, waiting for a better time — but I have fond memories of dining at it with Fastidius and Master Pascent.

  “If only there was a way to force his hand,” muses Fastidius. “To make him focus the bulk of his army in one place…”

  “I may have an idea,” I say. I make it sound as if I just came up with it — but it’s something that was in my head ever since the Stone Bridge battle. I turn to Fastidius. “Tell me, how keen is our Bishop to leave Londin these days?”

  “Not if he can help it. But I might be able to persuade him. What did you have in mind?”

  “Aelle likes silver. Church silver, most of all. He’s drawn to it like moth to a flame.”

  Fastidius nods. “I think I understand.” He glances at Paulinus. “How do you feel about His Grace hosting the Saint Peter’s Day Mass at your little village church?”

  The old man scowls. “I will try not to offend him with my heretic ways.”

  “We will all need to make sacrifices for this to work,” I say. “Beadda, you too — your men will need to be at their best behaviour for the next couple of days.”

  “Don’t worry. We will be too busy preparing for war,” the Iute says with a satisfied grunt. “Are you sure this will work?”

  �
�I have no idea.” I shrug. “But we will need to move fast. Aelle has spies in the villages; we need to spread the news of the Bishop’s arrival even before the official announcement.”

  “I will send word,” says Paulinus. “I still have some of my old contacts.”

  Brutus thrusts the knife into the bread. “Looks like we’re done here, then.” He stands up. “I’m going back to my men. We still need to prepare for any eventuality. The pagan may not take your bait.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Until we’re certain otherwise, we need to assume Aelle’s still proceeding with his original plan.”

  “You know where to find me,” says Brutus. He throws his officer’s cloak on his shoulders and strides out of the dining room.

  “He was in a hurry to leave,” notes Beadda. He reaches for the cheese left over on Brutus’s plate.

  “Brutus is a busy man,” says Fastidius. “He’s no longer just the centurion of palace guards. He is now a praetor — a commander of all of Wortimer’s forces, within and outside of the city.”

  “Wortimer? Don’t you mean Wortigern?” I ask.

  “There’s little difference these days. You’ve seen the armband.”

  “I thought Wortimer would be eager to join this battle himself, not send a soldier in his place.”

  “He’s cleverer than you give him credit for. He knows Brutus is a better officer than he’ll ever be.”

  “If the battle is won, the credit will be Wortimer’s,” says Paulinus. He tears off a chunk of bread and dips it in olive oil. “If it’s lost, it will be Brutus’s fault.”

  “Looks like I’ll have a lot of catching up to do when I’m back in Londin,” I say.

  “If they let you back at all,” says Paulinus, oil dripping down his chin.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means your kind are rarely welcome within the Wall,” he says, pointing to his hair.