by Trevor Bloom
‘You’ve got balls, boy, I’ll give you that.’ He waved the two Cheruskkii away and gave what might almost have been a sigh. ‘Listen, I didn’t kill your father.’ He sat and leaned back and put one foot on top of the other. ‘Tiw knows, he was not a great leader, but he was a brave man and he knew who he was. Aelfric always put his people first and they loved him for it.’
Ascha felt a prickle of doubt. He had been so blind with wanting revenge it hadn’t occurred to him to question whether there were others who might have wanted Aelfric dead. But could Hanno or Hroc really have killed Aelfric?
‘This rabble don’t love me.’ Radhalla went on, looking around the hall. He drew back a foot and kicked the table leg. The sound exploded like a dog’s bark. Heads lifted in anger, saw Radhalla and thought better of it. Mumbling they went back to sleep. ‘They hate me but they’ll fight for me and, if needs be, the bastards will die for me.’
Radhalla rubbed his belly and let out a rippling belch. He grimaced and then leaned forward and beckoned Ascha with a thick finger.
‘Let me tell you a story.’ Radhalla said, scratching his beard. ‘Your father and I used to go raiding together. One summer we were in Pritannia. We found a rich estate and burnt the village and plundered the house. Some women were captured, a few children. There was a girl that Aelfric took a shine to. She was a strange little thing, not pretty, but lots of spirit. She kept her head covered, but you could see her eyes burning with anger. I’d a taken her myself, but Aelfric was war leader and had first claim. On the boat back the crew pleasured themselves with the Pritanni women, but Aelfric forbade any man to touch his girl. On pain of death, mind you. She was his and his alone.’
Radhalla looked at Ascha and frowned. ‘I didn’t like that. Didn’t like it at all. We were friends and we’d always shared our women. But that was your father all over. She might have been no more than a slave, but Aelfric loved her from the day he clapped eyes on her.’
Ascha closed his eyes.
At the mention of his mother, his throat tightened and he felt tears in his eyes. He could imagine her, out of her mind with terror, trying so hard to be brave.
Radhalla scratched his chin and watched him, smiling all the while. ‘Sigisberht said you are good at what you do. Said there was more to you than meets the eye. Said that although you were low-born and no warrior, you were very – what was it, ah yes – resourceful.’
Ascha said nothing.
Radhalla looked down at his beer. ‘What do you think of my fleet?’ he grunted suddenly.
‘I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,’ Ascha said hoarsely and to his surprise he realized he meant every word.
Radhalla grinned. ‘Do the Romans or the Franks have anything like it?’
Ascha shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They don’t.’
One of the dogs stretched and yawned. It got to its feet, swinging its head back and forth, and moved closer to the fire, flopped down and went back to sleep.
‘And the new young Overlord, what do you think of him?’
‘Clovis?’ Ascha said warily. ‘He’s shrewd and he’s ruthless.’
‘Then he’s like his fucken father,’ Radhalla said with a burst of anger. He breathed in heavily and then blew it out. ‘You know he’s sent men to spy on me?’
Ascha lifted his head, jaw dropping. ‘No.’
‘I found them and killed them,’ Radhalla chuckled. ‘Dumped their bodies in the woods. The last one I pinned to a tree by his tongue. I think the wolves got ‘im in the end.’
He laughed.
How many men, Ascha wondered, had Clovis sent before he thought to send his Saxon half-slave? And why was Radhalla telling him this? Was this supposed to be a warning?
Radhalla blew his nose into a stained rag and stuffed it into his tunic. ‘I’m tired of raiding. I hate the travelling. I get sea-sick!’ He glanced at Ascha. ‘There’s got to be a better way. All this work every summer for a few boatloads of loot.’ He smacked a meaty fist into his palm. ‘I want more, much more.’
‘What more is there? You have it all.’
‘I’ll tell you what more there is.’ He grimaced and rubbed his belly. ‘My brother, Ergul, lives in Pritannia. He says we should do what he did.’
Ascha tried to sit up, ‘Which is?’ he said.
‘Settle. Colonize the land.’
Ascha looked at Radhalla in astonishment, ‘You’re going to settle in Pritannia?’
Pritannia lay across the ocean at the outer edge of the world. All too easy when the fog lay thick as milk to lose your way and disappear in a sea without end.
‘Naaaa, Ergil and I, we fight all the time.’ Radhalla said. He banged his fists together and let out a rich laugh. ‘Ergil can stay in Pritannia and rot for all I care.’
‘What then?’
Radhalla paused. He leaned forward and stared into Ascha’s eyes. For a moment, the brutal mask fell away and Ascha saw warmth and a twinkling humour, the man who was once his father’s closest friend.
‘I’ve had enough of boggy swamps and damp forests. I want to see fields rippling with golden wheat,’ Radhalla said. ‘I want to get up in the morning to the sound of birdsong and feel sunshine on my face.’
‘So?’
‘So, this time there’s no in-and-out-and-home-again. We’re going to carve ourselves a fat slice of Gallia, that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take the Romans’ land from them,’ he laughed richly and slapped Ascha on the shoulder. ‘What do you say to that, my boy, eh? What do you say to that?’
15
After that, Ascha saw no more of Radhalla. He was not sorry. He was starting to feel a glimmer of respect for the Cherusker and this unsettled him.
It was the time of Tiwfest. The men gathered on the mara wearing their finest clothes, their hair combed and braided according to the custom of their nation. Prayers were said and a slave led out for sacrifice. The slave walked slowly, arms and legs bare despite the cold, eyes rolling up into his head. Drugged, Ascha thought. The slave was pressed to his knees, a burly Cherusker clubbed him on the head and the slave collapsed in a heap.
Radhalla appeared.
The warlord of the Cheruskkii wore a wolfskin cape over a tunic the colour of sunset and was accompanied by a file of Gesith carrying ancient rust-spotted helmets and breastplates, trophies from some long-forgotten war against Rome.
A line of Cheruskkii girls and young women followed, dressed in white and wearing crowns of woven leaves. Behind them came Radhalla’s guests. Ascha surveyed them. They were high-born, mostly from the northern tribes, men who Radhalla had a mind to impress. He knew them all, no surprises there. And then his eyes were drawn to a man at the back, half-hidden behind the others. He squinted and moved for a better view, but the man’s face was lost in the shadow.
The girls hitched their dresses above the muck and sang a song to Tiw, their voices pure and clear in the chilly air. The men leaned on their spears and listened, blinking back tears at the sweet sadness of it all.
When they were done Radhalla raised his arms.
‘A great time is upon us, my brothers,’ he cried. ‘In a few short weeks the festival of Eostre will be here, and we shall embark on a great venture. Our aim is the destruction of the Roman war beast. Your task will not be easy but the eyes of the north are upon you. Your enemy is well-trained and battle hardened. He will fight savagely. You will need strong stomachs and an iron will. But the tide has turned and the days of Roman tyranny are over. We have assembled a vast fleet. The journey across the ocean will be long and hard but, with Tiw’s blessing, we will crush the Romans and their Frankish allies and drive them into the sea. My brave wolves, I trust in your courage, your devotion and your skill in battle. There will be land and plunder and glory for all and if you have to die, let it be a hero’s death.’
A silence and then the mara erupted.
Thoughts whirled through Ascha’s head. If Radhalla meant what he said, the Saxon uprising would be a
greater threat than even Clovis had feared. A raid was one thing, conquest was another. And now Radhalla had moved the sailing date forward. The Cheruskkii weren’t waiting for the summer. They would sail in the spring.
He felt a flutter of alarm. He’d hoped the Franks’ Frisian agent would get his information back to Frankland, but he’d heard nothing. If the Frisian didn’t show up soon, it would be down to him to warn the Franks. And that would mean leaving Radhallaburh and making his way back to Frankland before the fleet sailed.
He groaned inwardly at the thought of the journey back to the Rhine, but he had no choice.
On the mara men cheered until their lungs were raw.
‘Radhallaaa!’ they bellowed. ‘Rad-hall-aaa! Radhallaaaaaaa!’
‘Tchenguiz, I have to get away. I have to warn the Franks.’
The Hun looked at him. They were in the forest, selecting timber for felling. It was cold and crisp, the snow as deep as their knees and they were walking side by side, bending forward to resist the wind. Some way off, they could hear axes banging on the frozen wood as if it were iron.
‘They will never let tha go.’
‘I will have to find a way. The Franks have no idea what is about to hit them.’
‘I come with you,’ Tchenguiz said.
Ascha looked at him. Since opening up to Tchenguiz he had noticed that the Hun had become more direct in his remarks, as if the gulf between them was narrowing.
‘Na, I’ll send tha back to the village. It’s not safe for tha here with Wulfhere about. Tha can take care of my mother and Budrum until I come for them.’
‘It’s tha Wulfhere wants to hurt, not me.’ Tchenguiz said with a grin. ‘Tha lie with his wife.’
Ascha’s jaw dropped. ‘How by Tiw’s bollocks does tha know that?’ And then another thought. ‘Does Wulfhere know?’
Tchenguiz gave him a crafty smile. He put both forefingers side by side and slowly rubbed them together. ‘The whole village knows.’
Ascha swore. He’d thought he’d kept his tumbles with Saefaru a secret, but it seemed everybody had known all along.
‘Tha still think like a young boy,’ Tchenguiz said. ‘Them Franks teach tha nothing. Here, tha must grow up fast or that Wulfhere will kill tha.’
Ascha shook his head. ‘I never wanted an enemy.’
Tchenguiz hawked and spat. ‘Then tha’s a fool. In this world, tha cannot live without enemies.’
They heard a thunder of hooves and turned to see Radhalla ride by on a huge black stallion. It was a fine sight, the horse blowing plumes of warm breath and kicking up a cloud of snow, the Cherusker’s cloak dark against the winter landscape. Radhalla was a keen horseman who rode every morning, rain or shine. They had got into the habit of looking out for him. When they heard the crump of hooves, they would stop what they were doing and watched Radhalla gallop past, his big horse crunching through the sleet. Tchenguiz would shake his head and click his tongue admiringly and then they’d go back to their work.
Today, Radhalla was not alone. A stranger rode with him, mounted on a chestnut, his face hidden by a hooded cloak. Ascha knew immediately it was the man he had seen two days before on the mara.
‘Stay here!’ he said to Tchenguiz.
He knew there was a long stretch on the return leg where the Cherusker liked to gallop. If he waited there, he would see the stranger as he rode past. He went off at a crouching run, running between the trees where the snow was still firm and crisp. He ducked beneath the snow-laden branches, leaping over ditches and wallowing through the drifts. When he reached the spot he had in mind, he dropped down behind a felled trunk, pulled branches over his head and shoulders and waited, fingers raw, limbs aching with cold. He peered down the trail, the whiteness dazzling his eyes. At first, he saw nothing and then he spied two riders emerging from the trees, black smudges against the snow.
One rider spurred his horse into a trot and then broke into a gallop. The other did the same. Ascha dipped his head as he heard them coming. There was a thunder of muffled hooves and he saw Radhalla thunder past, the black cloak billowing behind him like night after day. The other rider was bent low over his horse’s neck. He had thrown back his hood and his dark hair streamed like water.
Ascha saw a thin hook of a nose and a savage grin.
Fara. Ragnachar’s man. The thoughts soon came spinning. What was Fara doing at Radhallaburh? Was he linked in some way with Radhalla? And did the Overlord of the Franks know that his uncle’s agent was visiting his enemy?
Ascha went to Eanmund and asked him where Radhalla lodged his guests.
‘Why you want to know?’
‘No reason.’
‘They stay with Radhalla in his hall.’
‘And if not there?’
Eanmund frowned. ‘There’s a lodge along the north road where he sometimes puts those who want to keep themselves to themselves.’ He pointed upriver.
Ascha thanked him. Eanmund said he should think nothing of it.
Ascha and Tchenguiz left the fort and took the north road. The thaw had started, and the snow was melting and beginning to turn to slush. They came to a mud track and followed it down into a hollow in which stood a large cabin at the bottom of a steep bank, all but hidden by ivy and overhung by trees.
The drifts were melting revealing the green beneath but, in the hollow and on the cabin roof, snow still lay thick as turf. The cabin was no more than two rooms with a rough porch, outhouses and a workshop at the side. A well lay half-hidden in the trees.
They waited and listened. Nothing moved.
‘Stay close,’ Ascha said.
‘What are we going to do if we find him?’ Tchenguiz grumbled.
‘I don’t know,’ Ascha said. He’d given no thought to what they would do. He climbed the steps, crossed the porch, opened the door and went in. The door swung open on leather hinges, their feet leaving a wet trail on the boards. The cabin was empty. There was a rough table in one room with a hard crust of bread on a plate and a jug rank with soured milk. In the corner was a wooden bed with a straw pallet and a couple of old and threadbare blankets. He picked up a blanket and then dropped it back on the bed. In the other room was a pile of old straw.
Tchenguiz knelt on the floor before the hearth and pushed his hand into the ashes.
‘Still warm,’ he said.
Ascha put up his nose and sniffed the air. A trace, no more than that, of an exotic but strangely familiar smell. He turned to go when his eye caught sight of something on the floor, half-hidden under the bed. He bent and picked it up, a small clay bottle, no bigger than his thumb. He pulled the stopper and put it to his nose. A powerful scent of musky spices hit him. He thought for a moment, replaced the stopper, pushed the bottle into his tunic and left.
Outside they found tracks in the yard leading to the road.
‘Three iron-shod riders and two mules,’ Tchenguiz said, kneeling. ‘They left today, probably just after dawn.’
‘Which way?’
Tchenguiz looked up at him. ‘Southwards,’ he said. ‘Towards the Rhine.’
‘Someone were looking for you,’ Eanmund said when they got back.
‘Who?’
‘Trader. Cheese-head. Said his name were Dagobert.’
Ascha blinked. Cheese-head. A Frisian?
‘What did he want?’
Eanmund raised his shoulders. ‘Said you owed him for a bronze kettle.’
Ascha felt his mouth dry. He owed nobody for a bronze kettle. Was this the Frankish agent Clovis had promised?
Eanmund saw the look on his face and mistook it for something else. ‘You don’t escape traders that easily. Them bastards will always find you.’
‘Why doesn’t he come here?’
‘Traders are not allowed to enter the fortress. He’ll be in the village.’ Eanmund made a vague nod to the world beyond the fortress walls.
Ascha felt as if a rock had been lifted from his shoulders. If this was the Frisian agent then he could fulfil his promis
e to warn Clovis of the uprising and still have time to deal with Radhalla.
He decided to wait. He shouldn’t be seen to be in too much of a hurry to settle a debt.
Ascha and Tchenguiz left the fort, passing by a clump of Cheruskkii gate guards who stood around a small fire, stamping their feet and banging their hands together. Ascha pulled his cloak over his head and gave them a wave. The guards looked up and then went back to their fire.
The two of them moved into the forest, ducking under trees and wading through knee-high snowdrifts. As they brushed against branches, snow fell down their necks. Somewhere they heard a dog bark. They stopped and waited until all was quiet, and then went on.
Ascha was nervous. This was his first contact with the Franks since he had left Tornacum. How could he be sure this man was a Frankish agent? How would he recognize him and, if he was who he said he was, how much should he tell him? He wished he had remembered to ask Flavinius for the man’s description.
They came to a jumble of broken-backed cabins on the riverbank, all overlain with snow. Ascha laid his cheek against the cold bark of a tree and studied the village.
Three boats moored at the jetty. Two were river traders who brought grain and took away furs to trade downriver. The third, a black-sailed, heavy-looking vessel, was a slaver that visited the fort from time to time, replenishing stock. A smaller boat was moored further up the riverbank and he assumed this belonged to the Frisian trader. The boats seemed empty, the crews probably drinking in the inn.
‘Stay here and watch the road,’ he said to Tchenguiz. ‘Warn me if anyone comes.’
He went on, his feet crunching the snow. A light spilled from one of the cabins and he heard the hum of voices. He went towards the sound, climbing steps slippery with ice. He pushed at the door which yielded with an ancient groan, and stepped inside.
Eyes flicked at him and then away.
‘One blood…’ he said half-heartedly, peering into the gloom.
There was a strong smell of hot food and damp clothes. By the brown and soupy light of oil lamps he saw a woman with frizzy hair stirring a black pot over a fire. Men with leathery faces sat at tables and talked. He wondered if one of them was the Frisian?
