by Whyte, Jack
A movement at the door caught my attention and the daughter came out again, carrying three pottery mugs with thick foam bubbling over their rims. My mouth immediately went dry with thirst and, on an impulse, I winked an eye at the one of the trio of small boys who still stood gaping at me. None of them had uttered a word since I appeared. Now, however, as I accepted a cool mug from their sister, this urchin, emboldened by my wink, stepped forward, his eyes on mine, and pointed to the bow I still held in my left hand. I have no idea what he asked me, but I realized immediately that what had held them silent all this time was mere shyness, and not superstitious dread and with that realisation it became suddenly apparent to me that none of the people in the farmhouse could have seen the effect engineered by Ambrose to astound and terrify their attackers. The shuttered windows of the house all faced the yard. These people all believed, quite clearly, that I had been alone upon the hill, shooting from one position. Amused now, and relieved, I decided to call Ambrose into view. Signalling open-handed to Gethelrud to alert him, I put down my mug, placed two fingers between my teeth, and whistled loudly.
Nothing happened. Ambrose had departed. Aware of the astonished looks on the faces of my hosts, I grinned sheepishly and shrugged, then picked up my mug again and moved towards the house.
The next hour or so passed pleasantly, despite the fact that we had to communicate by gestures. They fed me well, with roasted venison and fresh- baked bread, and their ale was excellent, foamier and more yeasty yet paler than our own beer, and when I indicated to them at last that I must leave, they packed more food and a large earthen jug of ale for me to take with me. I bade them farewell in the early afternoon and made my way back alone towards the barn where Ambrose and I had spent the previous night, waving back to all of them before I entered the long, tunnelled road that masked them finally from view.
Ambrose had found the pack-horses where we had left them, although both of us had privately suspected that they might have been found and either stolen or killed by the fleeing raiders. By the time I reached the barn he had unsaddled the poor brutes and was in the process of rubbing them down. I gave him the bag of food and the jug of beer I had brought with me, and while he was eating I completed the horses' grooming, then led them to a nearby brook to drink, after which I fed each of them a small amount of grain in their nosebags. As we waited for the beasts to finish eating, I asked Ambrose whether he thought the raiders might have been part of the mercenary force maintained by Vortigern. He shook his head emphatically.
"No," he grunted. "All Vortigern's men, locals and mercenaries, wear his colours—a square of red cloth bearing a yellow trefoil flower—sewn on their left shoulders." He reached into his saddlebag and produced one of the squares, handing it to me, and as soon as I saw it I recalled having seen the device in Verulamium years earlier. "Besides," he went on, "we're still too far south."
"How do you know that?" I handed the emblem back to him and he replaced it in his saddlebag before standing up and stretching.
"I know it because Vortigern's Danes, under Hengist, are too efficient. No raiders would dare intrude into their territories. They've been there for years, remember, and Vortigern relies on their savagery to keep his borders safe. The word went out long years ago: Stay clear of Northumbria! The raiders do, all of them."
"Do you think, then, those people will come back this way again, in force?"
"They might, but I doubt it." He began removing the nosebags, and I stepped to help him as he continued speaking. "The whole countryside knows they're about by this time, I should think. I imagine those two young lads we saw at the farm would have been sent out to spread the word quickly enough to the neighbouring farms. Now they're forewarned, our Saxon visitors will take little pleasure in seeking further adventure around here. We bloodied them to good effect, don't forget. One man in two or three is a high price to pay for an aborted raid. My guess is they'll move on and try somewhere else."
I glanced up at the sky above the clearing. "How long till darkness falls, do you think? Five hours? Six?"
"At least. Probably more. It's June. We've light enough to make ten miles and more before we need to look for a place to camp. Finish this beer and we'll leave the jug here in the barn."
We busied ourselves replacing our saddles and pack gear, and as he pulled himself up into his stirrups Ambrose opined that we were still at least two days south of Vortigern's borders. Nevertheless, by the campfire later that evening, he took the precaution of attaching Vortigern's colours to his left shoulder, sewing the patch of cloth securely to his cloak with large, looping stitches of coarse yarn.
He had been exactly correct. In the middle of the morning of the third day after his prediction, we were challenged as we emerged from a thicket and entered a short-grassed clearing, and moments later we found ourselves surrounded by a ring of hard-faced men, all heavily armed and helmed, most of them holding short, heavy-looking bows, drawn arrows pointing towards us.
The obvious leader of the group, a medium-sized fellow in a massively horned helmet and a long tunic of heavy ring mail, did not know quite what to make of us. His leader's colours were bright on my brother's shoulder, but our Roman-style armour and our armoured cavalry mounts marked us as aliens. The man clearly did not know whether to kill us out of hand, or to accept the evidence of amity on Ambrose's shoulder. Ambrose relieved him of the need to decide.
"Ambrose of Lindum," he shouted. "Seeking Vortigern." I recognised only the names.
The leader scowled. "Ambrose of Lindum is dead, years ago," he growled. Again, I recognised only the name but guessed at the rest from the tone of voice.
Ambrose reached up and removed his Roman helmet with its obscuring, protective flaps.
"Ranulf," he said, using Latin for my benefit. "Don't you know me?"
It was a pleasure to meet Vortigern once again, especially since he recalled me clearly despite the lapse of years since he and I had met. Moreover, his delight in Ambrose's return was total, spontaneous and unfeigned, although it faded slightly, to be sure, when he discovered that Ambrose had returned only to bid him hail and farewell again.
I found the king greatly changed since our first meeting. Still handsome and regal in his bearing, he had matured well during the years since Verulamium and the Great Debate convened by Germanus. His hair had turned from iron grey to silver, but he had retained all of it, so that it hung thickly to frame his noble face, and he now wore a full beard, carefully trimmed and groomed. His shoulders were unbowed by advancing years and he stood almost as tall as my brother and I, holding himself at all times in an erect, military posture, shoulders squared, so that he appeared to dominate every gathering. But it was in his manner that I thought to detect a change. When first we had met, I had been favourably impressed by the ease, the appearance of casual repose, that he had shown to everyone with whom he dealt, treating each man, bishop or man-at-arms, with an easygoing goodwill that spoke of confidence and boundless self-assurance. My admiration of his dignity and self-possession had been unstinting then, causing me to think of him as "regal," a word I would have applied to no man before that time. Outwardly, Vortigern the King seemed at first glance to be as he had been in Verulamium, urbane and gracious, good-humoured and at ease with all around him, yet I sensed undertones of something new in his demeanour, a reticence I had not marked before; a tendency to veer away from certain topics so effectively that they were never raised to prominence. I said nothing of these vague misgivings to my brother. I merely watched, and listened closely, and felt somehow disturbed.
We remained with Vortigern and his people for the first two weeks of June and he entertained us lavishly, demonstrating himself to be a gracious and noble host. As we talked, he came to appreciate the advantages of having Ambrose, a trusted friend, in charge of friendly forces, cavalry in particular, guarding the western and southwestern approaches to his lands. He had troubles enough to occupy him to the north and east and south, he told us, keeping his borders, s
ea and land, free from trespass by Picts, Anglians, Jutes and the ubiquitous Saxons.
He had seen our cavalry in Verulamium, of course, but like Ambrose, he had failed entirely to understand the power it represented. Now, impressed by Ambrose's radiant enthusiasm in speaking of our strength, Vortigern examined our horses and our equipment and accessories minutely, paying close heed to our stirrups and how they were adjustable to each man's leg length on our saddles. I showed him everything ungrudgingly, secure in the knowledge that he lacked the resources, if not the will, to develop similar powers of his own.
On the seventh day of our visit, while Ambrose was elsewhere greeting friends and renewing old acquaintances, I met Vortigern's friend and ally Hengist the Dane. "Dane" was a term I had not heard before Ambrose used it mere days earlier, but Hengist was insistent that such was his race. I, who had but recently thought of all the invaders of our land generically as Saxons, took note of this additional distinction and said nothing.
Hengist was an enormous man, more in the sense of bulk, be it said, than mere height. He was tall enough, a handsbreadth taller than any of his fellows, but Vortigern stood taller than he did, as indeed did Ambrose and I. In terms of sheer size, girth and physical power, however, Hengist stood alone. Only two men I could recall rivalled him in sheer massiveness, one of those being Huw Strongarm's factotum Powys, and the other Cullum, the giant Hibernian Scot whose boar spear I had seized to fight the bear that day in front of Athol's stronghold.
On that first occasion we met, Hengist had walked unannounced into the private chamber Vortigern reserved for his personal use in his own Hall, pausing on the threshold as he realised that the king was not alone. Standing there in the doorway, stooped over slightly to avoid scraping the lintel with the massive helmet he had not removed, he appeared to fill the space completely, blocking the light from beyond.
"Oh," he growled, peering into the dark interior. "Your pardon, Vortigern. I was unaware you had company. I'll come back." I realised that lie had spoken in Latin and sat straighter, showing my surprise, so that he cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, looking at me more closely now. "Ambrose? Is that you?"
"No, Hengist, it is not. Come in." Vortigern rose to his feet quickly and stepped to where the big man stood hesitating. The king took him by the arm and drew him forward to where I now stood, having risen to my feet with my host. "This is Merlyn Britannicus, Ambrose's brother. Remarkable resemblance, is it not?"
Hengist stepped forward and his eyes grew wide as he scanned my face, so that it occurred to me again that I might never grow accustomed to the shock people betrayed on seeing the similarity between us two. Hengist recovered quickly, however, and greeted me affably, removing his helmet and shaking out his thick, iron-grey hair as he explained that he had just returned from an inspection tour of their coastal garrisons. I noted that word "garrisons" in silence, reflecting that I yet had much to learn of Vortigern's allies and the extent of their duties and activities, as well as their strength. He seated himself across the table from Vortigern and me and took the large mug of ale proffered by a silent servant, drinking deeply before setting it down and turning the full force of his personality upon me.
Reassured by his fluent mastery of my own Latin tongue, I allowed myself to relax and enjoy his company, asking him openly after a time about his evidently deep friendship with the king, who slouched easily in his high- backed, armed chair and waved an open palm at the big man, giving him leave to tell me all he could.
It transpired that their fathers had been friends when both of them were very young, in the closing days of Rome's dominion here in Britain and elsewhere in the Western Empire. Vortigern's father, a powerful magistrate under Roman rule, although a king in name alone, had travelled into the Dane Merk, as Hengist called his homeland, on a diplomatic mission of some kind to Hengist's grandfather, and had remained there, with his family, for seven years. The two boys had become close friends at the outset of that mission, and by the end of the seven years each had been fluent in the other's tongue. During that time, Vortigern had formed a deep liking for the Danish folk among whom he lived, and a great admiration for their prowess in war. Theirs was an infertile land, its soil thin and sour and suited only to the conifers that covered it. In consequence, the Danes for centuries had sought a great part of their sustenance abroad, sailing in galley-style craft crewed by fighting men since, in addition to having to fight to obtain their plundered cargoes, they frequently had to fight to retain and defend them on the journey home.
In later years, after the Roman presence had been withdrawn from Britain, Vortigern had attained the titular kingship held by his father. By that time, however, with the Romans gone never to return, his people had looked to Vortigern himself for real leadership and protection. Soft and weakened by four hundred years of largely peaceful occupation by the Roman legions, they were incapable of defending themselves against the escalating depredations of the raiders who swarmed across the seas from the western coasts of the Germanic and northern lands in ever-growing numbers.
Faced with disaster sweeping in from the seas on great banks of oars, Vortigern remembered his boyhood friend and his warlike people, and travelled across the sea himself to seek out Hengist in the Dane Merk. He found him without difficulty, for Hengist himself had become a king of sorts in his own right: paramount war chief among his folk. Vortigern had then offered his friend a proposition: in return for their military support and active assistance in the defence of his lands, he offered Hengist and his people land in his own domain in Britain—sweet, rich farmland to replace their own thin, unprofitable fields in the Merk. Hengist had required little time for deliberation. He had put Vortigern's proposal to his people in their moot council and it had been accepted. Preparations for departure had begun immediately; five years had been required to effect their exodus completely.
At that time, Vortigern and Hengist had both been young men, not yet twenty years old and full of restless visions. Since then, more than thirty years had elapsed. Now Vortigern's territories were secure and unthreatened, and he and his Danish allies had begun to push their borders outward, embracing the lands to the south and west abandoned by their former inhabitants, who had either fled or been killed by the swarming raiders from the sea.
I had sat silent through Hengist's recital of this tale, but now he stopped, his gaze fixed on me.
"I can see from your face that something troubles you, my friend. Do you have a question to ask me?"
I glanced towards Vortigern, then cleared my throat.
"Well, yes, I do, but I fear it will merely show my ignorance of how things truly stand in this region. As you know, our lands of Camulod lie in the far west and we have problems of our own with raiders from the seas. But we have only Celts to deal with, mainly from Hibernia. The Picts from the far north come down our way but seldom, and we have had a few visitations, though none recently, from Gaul. Most recently, we have had incursions by African pirates, seeking marble stone." Both men watched me closely, nodding politely. I paused, collecting myself, then blurted my question straight out.
"If you and yours are the Danes, and the people we encountered some days ago to the south of here are Angles or Anglians as Ambrose says, then who, exactly, are the Saxons?"
Hengist let out a great, booming laugh.
"Who indeed?" He laughed again, then sobered abruptly. "The Saxons, my friend Merlyn, are similar to many other races in that they are a fiction: a creation of the arrogant Romans, who called themselves Masters of the World. There are Saxons out there, be sure of that, but they all come from one territory, in what Rome termed the Germanic lands. They are a blond people, warlike and not easily subdued, and they fought long and hard against the Roman Eagles. But in the end they were absorbed, as were we all. In the interim, however, so well had they defied the Roman conquest that their name became an eponym for savagery, so that all the Germanic peoples and their northern neighbours became known to Rome as Saxons. To u
s, however, the differences are clear. There are the Angles, or the Anglians, whichever you prefer, and the Jutes; there are the Friesians, who call themselves the Goths—the Romans, bureaucratic to the last, called them Visigoths and Ostrogoths. Then there are the Norsemen, from the lands abutting ours. North of those are the Sverigen, and to the east of them the Letts. And there are also Saxons. But even we, the Danes, the folk of the Dane Merk, were Saxons in the eyes of Rome."
When he fell silent I sat nodding, absorbing what he had said.
"So then," I observed eventually, "what you are telling me is that these other peoples, these 'Saxons,' are a mixture of many tribes and all of them are as alien to you, the Danes, as they are to us, the people of this land?"
