by Trevor Bloom
But it was the stranger’s boots which struck Ascha most. They were made of soft doeskin, finely stitched and hobnailed, the tops rolled over to show a lining of badger fur. Silver spurs at each heel. Ascha felt a sluggish swell of jealousy pass through him. In the homeland, men would kill for boots like those. Plain to see, this Frank had never had to struggle.
Filled with a sudden anger, he kicked the Frank on the foot. ‘Chlodwig, son of Childeric?’
The Frank opened one eye and studied him. ‘Ah, the look-out,’ he said in a flat and drawling voice. ‘And in these parts, I am known as Clovis.’
Ascha was shocked. He realized that Chlodwig or Clovis or whatever he called himself had not been asleep and had been watching the Theodi all along. He would have seen the Theodi fooling in the sun and had listened to what they were saying. He would have seen Ascha come down from the trees and would have known it was he who had had warned the Theodi of the Franks approach. He experienced a vague sense of unease, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.
‘What does your father want with Aelfric?’ he said.
The Frank sat up and hugged his knees. ‘Who wants to know?’
He spoke with a thick Frankish dialect, but Ascha could understand him well enough. For a moment, Ascha considered not telling him, and then said, ‘I am Ascha, Saxon of the Theodi clan.’
The Frank looked him up and down. ‘You’re a Saxon?’ he said with surprise in his voice.
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t look much like a Saxon,’ Clovis said bluntly.
‘Well, I am!’ Ascha said.
He was stocky and broad-shouldered, but with his black hair and blue eyes he knew he did not look Saxon. He tightened his jaw, annoyed that the Frank had already succeeded in getting the edge over him.
Behind the Frank, he saw his brother Hroc coming across the clearing, angling towards him. Hroc was the younger of his two half-brothers. He was older than Ascha and had, so Besso always said, his mother’s wheaten hair, his father’s temper and a cruel side that was all his own. Between Hroc and Ascha there was a raw and mutual dislike, neither knew how it had started and neither cared. It had just always been there. Ascha hated and loathed his brother Hroc almost as much as he adored his elder brother, Hanno. And Hroc equally despised Ascha, never letting Ascha forget that he was younger and of lower rank.
Ascha scowled. Talking to the Frankish prince had been his idea, and he had no wish to share him, least of all with Hroc.
‘What does your father want with Aelfric?’ he repeated.
Clovis got to his feet, rising in one sinuous movement. The Frank, Ascha saw with dismay, was taller than him by at least a head. Clovis put his fists in the small of his back, closed his eyes and stretched like a cat.
‘Why do you care?’ Clovis said. ‘He is your warlord and makes his own decisions.’
‘Because Aelfric is my father,’ Ascha said softly.
The Frank paused in mid-stretch, and Ascha noted with huge satisfaction the look of astonishment on the Frank’s face. ‘Your father is Aelfric, the hetman of the Theodi?’
‘He is.’
‘And your mother?’
Ascha was not prepared for the question. ‘What business is it of yours who my mother is?’ he said with a sudden burst of anger.
Hroc had come up behind Clovis. He stood with his hands on his hips, leaning forward slightly. Big-bodied and thick with muscle, Hroc wore a seaxe, the long knife worn by all freeborn Saxons, stuffed into his belt and carried an axe by a braided leather cord around his neck. Seeing him, Ascha felt uneasy. His brother had a belly-hatred of all foreigners. Saxons were the only people he trusted, and then only so far.
The Frank continued as if unaware that Hroc stood behind him. He swept his arm in a wide arc across the landscape. ‘All these are Childeric’s lands!’ he said in his languid drawl.
On the voyage down, Ascha had plagued Besso and Hanno with questions about previous raids they had been on in Gallia. Now, he struggled to remember what they had told him. ‘Not so!’ he said. ‘These are Roman lands. They are open to all’.
The Frank gave him a thin and superior smile. ’They were Roman,’ he agreed. ‘But Romans no longer rule here. These are our lands. Raid here and you steal from us.’
Hroc stepped forward and pulled on the Frank’s arm, spinning him round. ‘Tha’s lying!’ he said. ‘Frank land is to the north. This land is Roman, and northerners have raided here for generations.’
‘Not anymore,’ Clovis said. Taller than Hroc, he held Hroc’s glare with bleak indifference. ‘They now belong to us. We protect this territory.’
‘And if we pay no heed?’ Hroc snarled.
Clovis smiled again. ‘Ah, that would not be wise.’
‘Not wise?’ Hroc moved closer. ‘And what will you do to stop us, you little turd? The Theodi have raided here for generations. We sail the whale’s road and nobody stops us. When we find what we want, we take it.’
Clansmen were beginning to wander over, drawn to the raised voices. Alarmed, Ascha scanned the clearing. Things were getting out of hand. Hroc was spoiling for a fight. Ascha recognized the signs. His first instinct was to leave them to it. What did he care if Hroc slugged it out with the arrogant Frank, but he knew a fight would put his father’s life in danger? If Hroc killed or injured Clovis, the Franks would take revenge on Aelfric. They would send men to stop the SeaWulf sailing downriver, and the Theodi would die here.
‘Come away, Hroc,’ he said, laying a hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Tha doesn’t need this.’
Hroc shook him off. ‘Go take a piss, little brother. This do not concern tha.’
Anxiously, Ascha searched for the guard but the man had slipped away as soon as he saw Hroc approach. And where was Besso? He was the only one who could restrain Hroc when he was riled.
‘You are outsiders,’ Ascha heard Clovis say in a grating voice, ‘and we will destroy you as we have destroyed all northerners who raid our shores.’
Ascha couldn’t help but notice that Clovis had a smile on his lips and his eyes were shining. Ascha stared at him in astonishment. Was the boy mad? Did he have no idea what he was doing? Hroc had been known to knock down an ox with a single blow of his fist and leave it stretched with blood streaming from its ears. But Clovis seemed unaware of the danger he was in. Either that or he was playing some kind of game with Hroc, seeing how far he could push him. But this was a game that could easily spin out of control.
‘We raid where we choose,’ Hroc roared, spittle flying. ‘And we give way to nobody.’ He poked Clovis in the chest as if to emphasize each word. ‘And…never…to…a… pox-ridden… Frank!’
Years later, when Ascha looked back on the events of that day, it occurred to him that it was the chest jabbing that had done it. Clovis always hated being touched, especially by men like Hroc who he considered lower than an animal. As Hroc went to raise his fist once again, Clovis, his face pale, swatted Hroc’s arm away.
‘We own these lands,’ he said, making no attempt to hide the scorn in his voice. ‘So go back to your filthy marshes and eat frogs or fuck your sisters or do whatever it is you bog-folk do. There is nothing for you here. Do you understand, you Saxon prick? Nothing!’
Silence.
Hroc let out a terrifying scream of rage. An axe appeared in Hroc’s fist, and Ascha saw the heavy blade arcing down towards the Frank’s bare head. Without thinking, he flung himself forward. Ramming into Hroc, he wrapped both arms around his brother’s barrelled chest and drove on with all his strength. The force of the rush hit Hroc like a sail-boom, knocking him sideways and hurling them both to the ground with a bone-jarring crash. Somehow, Ascha twisted as he fell and Hroc’s crushing weight rolled into him driving the breath from his body in one whooof of exploding air. There was a sharp stab of pain as his collarbone gave way and then a tumult of yells. Somewhere far off he heard Besso bellowing. The world was spinning, a dizzy whirlpool of legs and faces and trees and sky. Hroc�
�s face, warped with rage, rose above him. Ascha saw his brother’s arm swing back, saw the fist coming and felt a massive blow to the side of his head. There were flashes behind his eyes and a dull roar like an undertow in his head.
And then the darkness slid over him.
Ascha’s homeland is made up of limitless marshes, wide rivers and mewing gulls. It is bounded by ocean to the north and woods to the south and scattered with terpen, the mounds on which the Theodi build their homes to keep them safe from the storm-floods. Dykes hold back the sea, criss-crossing the fields like runes scratched on antler bone.
The Theodi are not a large clan – two hundred and fifty people, all tied by blood and bone – but they know who they are. Long ago they migrated from the Almost-Island and settled between the two rivers. They became guardians of the hearg, the sacred pool that lies on their land, and are known by the other north shore folk as the shrine people. The Theodi are proud of their past, and every child is taught the story before they can walk.
The clan fish and they farm. They make salt in the salt-pans and they trade with the summer-traders. Every year the women pack the men off to raid, Gaul usually, sometimes Hispania, or the damp islands, Pritannia or Hibernia. They sail across the ocean and follow the rivers, penetrating deep inland. They fall on isolated villages, loot and slaughter and take their plunder home. Raiding gives meaning to a hard life and provides food and warmth when the rivers freeze and birds fall dead from the sky.
The Theodi view the Pritanni and the Gauls, nations who have allowed themselves to be conquered by the Romans, as weak and wealthy. The clan’s northern neighbours – Saxons, Danes, Frisians, Svea, Jutes and Engle – are considered near-kin and are rarely raided. To the east are primitives who worship snakes and live in holes scratched in the earth. These, the Theodi regard as too poor to raid and are left alone.
Ascha grows up as tough as a weed. He has his slave-mother’s pale skin and crow-black hair, also her sharpness and strength of mind. But among the Theodi, his broad shoulders, big hands and startling blue eyes mark him as a son of Aelfric.
When he is ten, his brother Hroc takes waepndag, the spear-giving festival which marks a boy’s passage from child to man. Before a crowd of family and friends, all packed in like salted herrings, the boys line up in Aelfric’s great hall. Ascha pushes and shoves his way to the front. As if in a trance, he watches as Hroc and the other boys lay their right hand on the sacred bundle and swear that they will be loyal to Aelfric and the clan.
‘In the eyes of Tiw and of this clan, you are now men,’ Aelfric says gruffly. ‘With this spear and this shield you become whole, a warrior and a free man. From this day forward, the lives of our women and our children will depend on your courage. Remember this for as long as you shall live.’
As the women chant the weapon-song, Aelfric presents each boy with a new spear and shield. The men clash their weapons against their shields, the mothers sniffle happily and Hroc’s grin stretches from ear to ear.
Ascha thinks it is the most exciting day a boy can have.
When Hroc comes to bed that night the fire is a dull orange glow, and the floor is thick with sleeping revellers. Hroc thumps Ascha awake. He is drunk and wants to talk. ‘I’m a man now, little frog, and tha must treat me wi’ respect.’
Hroc talks of what he will do now that he is weaponed. Ascha listens for as long as he can. When his eyelids droop, Hroc kicks him and tugs the blanket away. Unable to bear the cold any longer, Ascha gets up and goes down the hall to where the slaves sleep. He clambers over Tchenguiz, his father’s Hun slave, and lies down beside him in the straw.
All that night, Ascha lies awake, thinking.
The next day Ascha goes to where his father sits by the door, his head in his hands, recovering from the drinking of the night before. He waits until Aelfric looks up at him with bleary eyes and then says, ‘When will I be given a shield and weapons like my brothers?’
His father looks at him. ‘Don’t be stupid, boy,’ he says. ‘How can tha be given a shield?’
‘Why not? Hroc and Hanno are weaponed.’
‘They are freeborn,’ Aelfric says stonily.
‘But I am thi son, as are they. We are all of thi blood.’
Aelfric’s eyes bore into his. ‘Tha’s of my blood, but thi mother is a slave,’ he says, speaking slowly as if Ascha were deaf or stupid. ‘Tha’s half-free, a half-slave. Tha can niver carry weapons or a shield. The right to bear arms is denied those who are not free born.’
Ascha stares at his father. His eyes burn and his throat swells. He begins to realize what he has suspected for a long time. He is not and never will be the equal of his brothers. Although the son of the hetman, he is slave-born and will never have a spear-giving like Hanno and Hroc. He is a half-slave, trapped in the murky borderland between slave and free.
‘But if I am not weaponed, I cannot be whole,’ Ascha says, feeling the panic rise. ‘I cannot own land. I cannot marry who I choose. I will always be less than my brothers. I have no future.’
His father shrugs. ‘It’s the law,’ he says, rubbing his chin. ‘Nothing I can do about it.’
‘But you are hetman,’ Ascha insists. ‘Tha can do anything!’
The muscles in Aelfric’s jaw tighten. ‘Tha is what tha is,’ he says. ‘And that’s the end of it.’
Ascha shakes his head, tossing out his father’s words as if they were water in his ears. He feels cheated, as if something precious has suddenly been stolen from him. ‘I am thi son!’ he screams. ‘But without a weapon, I am nothing!’
Aelfric makes as if to leave.
Ascha grabs his father’s arm and hauls him round. ‘What kind of father does this to his son?’ he shouts. ‘Tiw’s breath! What kind of man is tha?’
Aelfric’s fist catches Ascha below the ear and hurls him across the room. He blinks and shakes his head and then gets to his feet and rushes his father, arms flailing. Aelfric takes a step back and hits him again, a hard slap across the face. Ascha flies across the floor and hits the wall with a dull thump.
‘Stay down, boy,’ Aelfric says, glowering. ‘Stay down if tha knows what’s good for tha.’
Ascha scrambles to his feet and stands there, chest heaving. His mother comes running. She sees the two of them glaring at each other with murder in their hearts, and her hand flies to her mouth. She screams, a wail of fury and fear, and throws herself between them.
Aelfric stands clenching and unclenching his fists. He points to Ascha but speaks to her, his face flushed with anger. ‘Tha should’ve taught him to accept what he is,’ he growls. ‘He is not free-born and niver will be. Best he learns that now before it’s too late.’
Sobbing with rage, Ascha would have flung himself again at his father, but his mother wraps her arms around him, holds him tight and gives his shoulder a hard squeeze. ‘No, Ascha!’ she says.
He bites his lower lip but makes no further move.
His mother closes her eyes and opens them again. She turns to Aelfric and in a bleak whisper she says, ‘If you ever lay a finger on my son again, as God is my witness, I will kill you and everything you hold dear!’
Aelfric’s face passes from fury to bewilderment and something else. He sighs, blows air from his lungs and lets his fists drop to his side ‘Ach, woman,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Sometimes tha pushes me too far and one of these days tha’ll regret it.’
And he turns and leaves.
Ascha angrily pushes his mother away. He touches his cheek. There is a burning feeling in his jaw and a taste of iron in his mouth. He is ashamed because she has saved him from a beating. He is surprised to see that she is trembling. Her eyes are bright and her mouth is open and she is panting slightly. He touches her briefly on the arm and leaves.
When Ascha came to he was lying on the grass under a small leather tent, his head resting on his own rolled short-cloak. There was a foul and sticky taste in his mouth, and his head throbbed. For a moment he did not know where he was and then he remem
bered Hroc and the young Frank and he groaned.
The sunlight streaming into the tent told him it was long past daybreak. Flies circled and droned. The air in the tent was stale, heavy and hard to breathe.
He lifted a hand and gasped as the pain hit him, a blunt ache that began at his cheek, ran along his jaw and down his neck.
‘Tha’s awake, little brother?’
A face appeared at the end of the tent, rimmed in sunshine. Hanno, Ascha’s elder brother, was tall and lean with yellow hair and an easy smile. He was a poet and a warrior, everything Ascha admired in a man.
Hanno came in and sat down, folding his long legs beneath him. Despite the oppressive heat, he looked as fresh as a daisy. He pulled out a flask and offered it to Ascha with a giant smile. Ascha took it, pulled the bung with his teeth and upended the flask. The water was cold and fresh, and he drank greedily.
He blinked and peered at Hanno with gummy eyes.
‘What happened?’ he mumbled, the pain rolling over him in a bone-softening, swell.
Hanno gave a dry laugh. ‘Tha stopped Hroc from cracking that Frank’s skull and avoided a bloodbath. That’s what happened.’
Ascha groaned. ‘Where’s father?’
‘He’s back and is well.’
‘And Hroc?’
‘Kicking his heels in the forest somewhere,’ Hanno grinned. ‘We were lucky. If Hroc had killed that Frank, they would have slaughtered us all before we reached the river mouth.’ Hanno gave Ascha a vacant smile. ‘Odd thing is, he blames tha. He thinks tha humiliated him in front of the clan.’
Hanno laughed suddenly and slapped his thigh.
Ascha thought Hanno had everything a man could want: high rank, good looks and the lazy charm that women adored, but he often found his brother’s easy-going nature irritating. For all his viciousness, Hroc knew what he wanted and fought to get it.
Ascha tried to sit up but groaned once again as the pain hit.
