The Hallowed Isle Book Two

by Diana L. Paxson

  Consciousness returned gradually on a tide of lamentation.

  Why are they weeping? Am I dead? Oesc wondered. But the dead didn’t feel pain, and as awareness returned he realized he had a raging headache and was sore everywhere. For a few moments he lay still, trying to remember.

  Then a flash of memory showed him Byrhtwold lying sprawled before him with a spear thrust through his chest. After that he had been seized by battle madness. That must be why he felt so awful now. They must be wailing for Byrhtwold, he thought then, and felt hot tears on his own cheeks. He died saving me.

  Oesc opened his eyes. Blurred vision showed him a night sky and the shapes of men moving back and forth between him and the fires. Then he tried to sit up and discovered that his hands and feet were tied.

  Alarm shocked through his body, sharpening his senses. The lamentations he heard were in the British tongue, and the faces and gear of the men around him were British as well. He had been taken by the enemy.

  He knew enough of their language to make out the words—

  Before Gerontius, scourge of the foe,

  I saw white horses swiflty go,

  After war cries, bitter the blow . . .

  At least, he thought with grim satisfaction, the Saxons had accounted for one hero among their enemies. The British were not rejoicing, and yet he was a prisoner, his mail shirt enough to mark him as worth saving for ransom. Who had won the battle?

  He took a deep breath and tried to break his bonds, and at the effort agony slashed through his head, dividing him from consciousness once more.

  When Oesc opened his eyes again, it was morning. His other wounds had stiffened painfully, but the headache had subsided to a dull throb.

  “Yes, that’s him—” said a Saxon voice nearby. “Octha’s whelp. I saw him in Venta.”

  Biting his lip to keep from groaning, Oesc rolled over. Squinting against the sunlight, he looked up at his captors. The Saxon was only a churl, of no importance. He blinked, trying to make out the features of the other two men.

  “Let me kill him!” said one of them, a man of about thirty years with curling dark hair. “My brother’s blood cries out for vengeance.”

  “Do you think I don’t mourn him too?” said his companion. Oesc couldn’t see him properly, but he sounded young, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. “He taught me to fight! He saved my life a dozen times yesterday . . . he was my friend. . . .”

  “We all grieve for Gerontius, but this one is worth more to us as a hostage,” said an older man.

  “How so? He’s no kin to Ceretic.”

  “True, but he is Hengest’s grandson, and while we hold him, Cantium will stand surety for Ceretic’s good behavior.”

  There was a long silence. Though his head was throbbing furiously, Oesc struggled to get up, refusing to remain bound like a thrall at his enemies’ feet.

  “Cut his bonds,” said the young voice tiredly.

  The older man sawed at the thongs with his knife and hauled Oesc to his feet, supporting him until the dizziness passed and he could stand alone.

  Artor . . . thought Oesc, taking in the rich embroidery on the bloodstained tunic, and the golden torque beneath the thin fringing of brown beard on the jaw. He himself was a bit taller, otherwise there was little to choose between them for size.

  “Can you understand me?” Artor asked, waiting for his prisoner’s nod. “We didn’t win the battle, but neither did you. You will come with us, bound by iron chains in a wagon, or bound not to try escape by oath before your gods, riding free. It’s up to you.”

  Your father killed mine . . . thought Oesc. There was a dagger at the king’s belt. If he could grab it and strike, Octha would be avenged. But at this moment it was taking all his strength just to stand. Once more he met Artor’s eyes, and this time he could not look away.

  He saw grief in that gaze, and a weariness almost as great as his own, and something else that he did not understand. Oddly, at that moment what he remembered was the trust in the eyes of the ox he had led to sacrifice. He had heard that the Christians of Eriu called it a white martyrdom, when they were exiled from their land. He swallowed, knowing himself self-doomed.

  “I swear . . . in Woden’s name. I am the offering.”

  V

  THE RAVEN’S HEAD

  A.D. 480

  WHILE CERETIC LICKED HIS WOUNDS IN THE SOUTH AND ICEL gathered strength in the midlands, Britannia lay at peace. Even the Picts and the Scotti were keeping quiet, and Artor’s advisors thought the time ripe for him to take possession of his father’s city of Londinium. With him went his houseguard and his servants, and Eldaul of Glevum and Catraut of Verulamium, who had become his principal ministers. And with him also went Oesc, his Saxon hostage, riding sad and sullen in the rear.

  Oesc’s heart ached to think of his grandfather waiting for him in that shadowed hall. Hæthwæge would take care of the old man’s health, but who now would play at tabula with him in the long evenings, or bring in venison when the salt beef of winter began to pall?

  And more than he could have imagined, Oesc missed Cantuware. When he closed his eyes at night he could see how the waterfowl spiraled down into the marshes, or the wind brushed gentle fingers across the growing grain. He could see sunlight falling through the forest of the Weald in showers of green and gold, and blazing with pitiless clarity on the high shoulders of the Downs.

  It was that day in the temple at Ægele’s ford that had made the difference, he thought, looking backward. Sometimes he cursed Hæthwæge for having brought him there, and sometimes he took comfort in the memory. He was rooted now in Cantuware as deeply as if he had been born there, and away from it he would never be happy, even if he were free.

  He was not badly treated. Rough repairs had made most of the old Governor’s Palace habitable, and there was room enough for all of Artor’s household there. Merlin had rooms in an old tower, but was rarely in them, being often away to other parts of Britannia, carrying messages, said some, while others whispered that he went off to consort with demons.

  Oesc grew accustomed to carven pillars and marble facings and cold tiled floors. He had a whitewashed chamber to himself, with a shuttered window that opened out towards the river. Only sometimes, wandering through an empty passage or a courtyard where a dry fountain accused the sky, he remembered how he had felt once when he dressed up in his father’s armor. It was as if he and all the others here were only children, playing at being kings, and soon the adults who had built these halls would reclaim their dwellings. Sometimes, watching Artor as he sat in splendor on the dais of the basilica, he wondered if the high king felt that way too.

  But the legions were gone. Odoacer, a warlord among the Saxons whose father had been one of Attila’s generals, ruled now in Italia, and unlike the barbarian generals who had gone before him, he refused to nominate a Roman as titular emperor. The Empire of the West was ended, and only in Britannia, and the parts of Gallia where Riothamus led British warriors whose families had fled the island after the Night of the Long Knives, did its memory live on.

  On an afternoon in October, Oesc stood with the rest of the household in the basilica, watching as Artor welcomed a delegation from Gallia. He was placed near the front, with Cunorix, the son of an Irish chieftain who had been making trouble in Demetia. All the hostages were on display together, he thought bitterly, like the high king’s sight-hounds, who lay panting on the mosaic floor, or the tiercel hawk on its perch by the throne.

  With nothing much else on which to spend his energy, Oesc had found a certain interest in watching the young king grow into his power. Artor was now almost twenty, and a man’s beard, clipped close, outlined the strong curve of his jaw. He had dressed for the occasion in a dalmatic of crimson silk, with twin bands of embroidery running over his shoulders and down to the hem on either side. Around his neck glinted the golden torque of a Celtic prince, but there was Byzantine enamel work on his diadem.

  Oesc, who had become accustomed to seei
ng his captor lounging by the fire in his favorite tunic of faded green wool, suppressed a smile. But the dark-haired boy who followed the Gaullish envoy was gazing in awe at the marble facings on the walls and the gilding on the coffered beams of the distant ceiling, and most of all at the brilliant figure on the throne. To him, Artor was the emperor.

  Eldaul stepped forward and read from a scroll, “Johannes Rutilius, Comes Lugdunensis, bears greetings from Riothamus, Dux of the Britons north of the river Liger, to Artorius, Vor-Tigernus of Greater Britannia.”

  “Let him approach—”

  The dark-haired man with the boy bowed.

  “My king, I bring the best wishes of my lord Riothamus for the continued good health of yourself and your realm.” His British had an odd accent, but by this time Oesc understood the language well.

  Someone in the crowd behind Oesc snorted. “About time—were they waiting to see if the lad could hold onto his crown?”

  “My lord offers a treaty of trade and alliance. The Franks worry at our borders in Gallia as the Saxons trouble you here. Barbarians sit at their ease in the Holy City, and the Emperor in Constantinople is very far away. You and Riothamus, my lord, are the heirs of the Western Empire, and it is only good sense for you to work together.”

  “As you say,” Eldaul interrupted him, “we are still fighting the Saxons. What help will Riothamus offer us?”

  “Nay,” growled one of the older men, “we need no help from men who fled Britannia when the Saxons first rose against us in blood and fire.”

  Artor frowned at both of them. “I think Gallia needs all her men for her own defense, and our own warriors can defend us here,” he put in quickly.

  “But the wharves of Londinium are often empty,” Catraut added. “Trade has been poor while the Saxon wolves ranged the Narrow Seas. Once Britannia helped to feed the empire. Send us merchant ships, with war galleys to guard them, and we will send you corn from the rich midlands that we still hold.”

  The flush that had risen in Johannes’s face subsided. “That is what I have come to propose, though I would add a provision that either ruler might call for aid to the other if times should change.”

  “That seems good to me,” Artor said while his advisors were still drawing breath to answer.

  “In earnest of our sincerity I have brought you my own son, the child of my wife who is sister to Riothamus, to serve you as part of your household.” He set his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him towards the throne.

  “What is your name?” asked Artor, learning forward with his elbows on his knees and the first genuine smile of the afternoon.

  “I am Betiver, my lord.” The boy spoke softly, but boldly enough—he must be accustomed to courts, thought Oesc.

  “Then you shall be my cupbearer. Would you like that, Betiver?”

  “I would like it very well—”

  Betiver’s eyes were shining. Oesc sighed. There was no denying that the British king had charm. All of the younger men were half in love with him. Except for me . . . he thought, glowering.

  “Then you may stand over there, and tonight, when we feast in honor of your father, you shall serve me.” Artor gestured towards the hostages.

  As the business of the court continued, Betiver turned to his new companions.

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re the king’s hostages. This black-headed lad is Cunorix, an Irishman from Demetia, and I am Oesc from Cantium.” Now, he thought, the boy would understand what his status truly was, despite the fine words.

  “Do you dislike it?” Betiver asked with surprising perceptiveness. “They say that the great Aetius was a hostage with the Huns, and Attila himself hostage for a time in Rome. That’s how we learn about other peoples and their lands.”

  For that to be any use, thought Oesc sourly, you have to get home again. But he said no more.

  One evening just past Midsummer, when every window had been opened to let in whatever cooling breath of breeze might come from the river below, Artor came striding back from a meeting of the council with a face like thunder and Cai at his heels.

  Oesc and Cunorix, who had been taking turns playing Round Mill with Betiver, stood up as the king appeared in the doorway. To try and get three counters in a row on the diagram was a children’s game, but Oesc liked it because the pattern reminded him of a Germanic protective sigil called the “helm of awe.” He made a grab for the counters as the board rocked, then straightened again.

  “I’ve spent most of a stifling day listening to old men argue,” said Artor. “They may have no blood in their veins, but mine needs cooling off. I’m going down to the river for a swim—would anyone else like to come?”

  “I would!” cried Betiver, knocking the board askew as he pushed past. Cunorix rescued it this time and set it on his bed. He glanced at Oesc and then nodded.

  “We’ll come too.”

  As they trooped down the stairs towards the riverbank, it occurred to Oesc that Artor, surrounded by old men who all thought they knew what should be done better than he did, was in a sense a prisoner too. There was something sad in the thought that he had to turn to his own captives for company. It made Oesc uncomfortable to feel sorry for Artor, and he thrust the thought away, but as the evening continued, it kept coming back again.

  The palace lay close to the river, but they had to follow the path along the banks for a little ways before they came to a landing where the bottom was shallow and firm enough to wade in. Some of the men from the town were already splashing happily, accompanied by shouting children. Someone looked up as they approached, saw they were strangers, and looked away.

  Artor turned, his eyes alight, and held up one finger for silence. Oesc realized then that stripped down to thin tunics or breeches, with no mark of rank or royalty, they looked like any other group of young men out for a swim. He stepped out of his sandals, pulled off his tunic and laid it over a bush; in another moment his breechcloth had followed. Like all the children of the marshlands, he had learned to swim when he was small. He entered the water in a long, low dive that took him far out from shore. The current was stronger than he had expected, and cold. He had to swim hard to get back to the shallows once more.

  Artor reached out and Oesc grasped his hand, a little surprised at the strength with which he pulled him in. Then he got his feet under him and stood, gasping.

  “Don’t go out too far—current will take you away,” Oesc said in warning.

  “I know . . . sometimes I wish it would. . . .”

  There was a moment of strained silence. Then Artor saw Oesc staring at him, gave his head a little shake, and smiled. In the next moment he was splashing Betiver, and in the water-fight that followed the moment of understanding was gone.

  But when the light of the long summer day faded at last and they reluctantly pulled on their clothing once more, Oesc still remembered that odd sense of equality.

  The day might be ended, but they were young, and so was the night. A century earlier, Londinium had been the metropolis of Britannia, and for every one of the more utilitarian businesses there had been a wine shop or taberna. Most of them had disappeared with the Legions, but now that the high king was in residence, they seemed to be sprouting on every street corner once more.

  Betiver, who was the sort of child who never forgot his hat or broke his shoe latchets, was the only one of them who had brought his belt-pouch. It held enough coins for them all to drink at the first taberna they stopped at, and the second. By the time they got to the third wine shop, Cunorix had won more money dicing with an Armorican sailor. At the fifth, Artor himself won them a round of drinks at ring-toss.

  By this time, all of them were exceedingly merry. Oesc, a veteran of serious Saxon drinking bouts with ale and mead, discovered that he had no head for wine. But it didn’t matter. Artor was a good fellow—Cai was a good fellow—and so were Cunorix and the boy. The serving girls with whom they flirted were all beautiful. The carters and tradesmen with whom they w
ere drinking were good fellows too, seen through a vinous, rose-pink, haze.

  “Got an idea—” He draped an arm across Artor’s shoulder. “Take your people, my people, get ‘em to drink together. Make ’em be friends!”

  “You’re drunk, Oesc.” Artor hiccoughed, then laughed. “Guess I am too. Sounds good to me. Maybe that’s how the Romans . . . got their empire!” They all laughed.

  It was very late by the time they ran out of money again, and by then the tabernas were beginning to close. Betiver had fallen asleep with his head on the table, and Cai hoisted him over one shoulder as they staggered out the door. The damp night air was bracing after the boozy warmth of the wine shop, but their steps were still a little unsteady when they heard the first light footfalls behind them.

  Oesc shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and saw the stars spin. If this was an ambush, he was going to have to fight drunk or not at all.

  “My lord—” came Cai’s voice from the darkness, the first time he had used the title all evening.

  “I heard. Take the boy on ahead.”

  How, Oesc wondered, could he sound so cool?

  “Artor! My place is here—”

  “Get Betiver to safety. That’s a command! Cunorix, Oesc, stand back to back with me!”

  “I’ll go for help!” Cai salved his conscience. He started to run, and at the sound of his footsteps, their attackers came out from the alleyway.

  At least, thought Oesc as he braced himself against the others’ shoulders, this way I won’t fall down.

  “We’ve drunk up all our money,” Artor said clearly. “You’ll get nothing but blows for your trouble.”

  “Yon black-headed lad has a silver buckle, and you are wearing a ring. That’s worth food and drink to starving men.”

  Oesc squinted at the approaching shadows. They didn’t move like starving men.

  “Go to the palace if you are hungry, and they will give you food. You are breaking the king’s peace and will be punished if you harm us here.”

  As Artor was speaking, Cunorix whispered in Oesc’s ear to watch out for the man on the right, who had a knife, while the others were armed with clubs or staves.