When I at last approach my father, a hush falls on the hall. The herald does not announce me, not knowing who I am; I come alone, in a soldier’s hooded cloak, without a chest of silver or a servant bringing gifts. My father leans forward, curiously, but when I throw back my hood, he scoffs and sits back.
“What jest is this, son?”
“It’s no jest, Father. I have a petition of my own,” I say to sniggers and chuckles around the table.
“And you couldn’t have just told me when you were sitting beside me?”
“I didn’t think you’d find the time to listen,” I say. “You’ve had a busy day.”
“I have a busy life, boy. Fine.” He waves his hand. “I’ll indulge this. What do you want?”
“I want to go back to Londin.”
The murmurs and chuckles stop. I feel the eyes of everyone around me.
“Why?” the king asks.
“I will be of more use there. I tried being a warrior, and I failed. But I will make a good clerk, or-or a priest…”
“No, I mean — why would you humiliate me like this?” His eyes drill into my skull. “In front of everyone? At my feast, in my hall?” He rises from his seat. “I thought we had an understanding. Yes, you can do whatever you want, boy. How many times have I told you this? If that is what you truly wish for — we can discuss this. But in private. Now sit back down beside me. You’re still an aetheling and you will behave like one until I tell you otherwise!”
I reel from the outburst. It’s rare for me to see him this angry. The others stare at us in stunned silence. My father sits back down and runs his hand across his face in a weary gesture. He sighs.
“Sit down, son. Please.” He points to my seat invitingly. “I’ve heard your request. I will address it tomorrow. Now, let us hear the scop’s song in peace.”
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood —”
“Sit. Down. You’ve embarrassed me enough.”
I make my way around the table — I need to walk back all the way, then up again, to reach my seat, past the guests, past Betula and her warriors. When I pass her, the Gesith grabs me by the sleeve.
“Octa,” she whispers. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, let me sort this out with your father. Don’t do anything you’d regret later.”
“Thank you, Betula,” I whisper back, laying my hand on her one shoulder. “But I can manage this on my own.”
I sit down, take a deep breath and calm myself down. The scop stares at us nervously.
“I can… I can perform some other time…” he says. “The song might not be —”
“Nonsense,” my father scoffs. “You’ve worked hard on it, I’m sure. Let us hear it.”
The scop gulps a mug of ale, wipes his moustache and, when the hall falls silent, begins his song with a brief invocation to the gathering, to King Aeric, and an appeal to Wodan to bless his efforts, before moving on to the story proper.
Then said Hengist, of boar-helm:
“Come out, Finn Folcwalding,
Come out, chief of the Frisians,
Honour thy fathers, hide not behind walls,
Take up thy war-board, and thy blade-lightning!”
There’s no need for the scop to explain the situation he’s describing. It is enough for him to mention the two names. The story is well known to all in the hall; he sings of the time Drihten Hengist spent in Frisia as a young mercenary, leading a warband of Iutes and Danes in service of a Danish chief. Through a series of unfortunate events, Hengist and the Danish chief turned against their host, the Frisian Finn, son of Folcwald. The saga is old — my father first heard it sung nearly twenty years ago, when he first came to Tanet, and it was already a famous story even then.
It appears the scop wishes to describe only the last part of the tale, in which the Danish chief is already dead, Hengist took over the command of the Danish and Iutish warband and, after slaying most of his warriors, besieged Finn in his own mead hall with the remnant of his retinue.
“It’s an odd choice of subject for a song,” I say quietly. “I was expecting him to describe one of the recent raids, not an old story everyone knows about.”
“Maybe he thinks there are no new stories anymore,” my father replies. “We won all the wars, vanquished all the enemies. All that’s left are some forest bandits, some pirates… Nothing worth singing about.”
In the scop’s tale, Finn Folcwalding has just refused to leave the mead hall for the third, and last time. This marks him as a coward who would rather sacrifice his men than fight an honourable duel. It leaves Hengist no choice but to destroy him and all the remaining Friesians.
The Danes string their bows of sturdy yews,
And the Iutes nock the pain-wasps.
They wrap them in wound-bindings
Soaked in pitch, dripping with tar;
The flame-serpents, the ruiners of houses,
Fly through the air, the bearers of fire
The scop’s voice shakes as he describes the burning roof of Finn’s hall; I stir in my seat. I don’t like where this is going. I don’t remember the story of Finn’s demise involving fire arrows or burning down the mead hall. I glance to my father and notice a slight frown; he, too, is unfamiliar with this part of the tale.
The door bursts open; the lord runs out:
Gold-breaker, treasure-giver,
With no gold to break, no treasure to give,
No tunic on him, no breeches, no belt,
No helm and no steel-shirt; naked as a babe.
Sniggers and chuckles ring out around the table. I feel my cheeks and ears burning.
“Stop him, father,” I say.
“Calm down, son. It’s only a song.”
Folcwalding charges with war-twig in hand,
But Hengist’s men laugh; they surround him
And watch as he trips and falls in the mud,
Weeping and cursing; a child, not a warrior,
Not worthy of being a king, he wallows…
“Enough!” I cry. I stand up, throwing the stool down. I throw the mead mug to the ground and run out of the hall as it erupts in laughter.
I spot a light coming from the stofa. My father had one built here, too, bigger and more comfortable than the one at Rutubi, with a tub large enough for two or three people, for when he wanted to talk to his courtiers in private or impress his envoys in an imitation of old Roman style.
In my anger, I pass the hut at first, but then I stop, intrigued. A bath suddenly sounds like a great idea. It would help me calm down and consider what to do next. I wonder who’s using it at this time of the night — everyone should be at the feast. Whoever is in there right now, at least they’re not laughing at the scop’s song and at my humiliation. Maybe it’s one of my friends, Audulf or Gille — though I’d rather expect them to be at the sailors’ tavern outside the fort, throwing a feast of their own with the local girls…
“Ursula!” I exclaim upon entering the hut. “When did you get here?”
She splashes over the side of the tub. “Just now,” she says. “A long journey from Dorowern.”
“Why aren’t you at the feast?” I ask, disrobing.
I feel no shame standing naked before her, and she feels no shame before me; our bodies have no secrets from one another, though it’s been a few years since we lay together; it was the first time for me, just as I was beginning to find interest in such matters, but she lay with Audulf before me, and with Gille after. Neither of us could satisfy her. Just to make sure, she even tried one of Betula’s shieldmaidens, before deciding it all wasn’t for her, and it would be better if we all just stayed friends.
“I could ask you the same question,” she says. “Shouldn’t you be at your father’s side?”
“Don’t even remind me…”
I slide into the bath, close my eyes and let the water calm my nerves. I don’t mind that it’s no longer hot and oozing with the dirt of Ursula’s journey.
I tell her of what happened at
the feast.
“Oh, Lord’s mercy!” She gives me a slippery embrace. “I’m so sorry.”
I shrug, enjoying her wet warmth. “It doesn’t matter. I told my father I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m not going to be a king — I’m going back to Londin, to Bishop Fastidius.”
She pulls away.
“But — that would mean you’re no longer with us.”
I chuckle. “Londin’s not across the sea. I would still come visit. And you’ll be welcome to see me in the capital.”
She sulks and submerges up to her shoulders. “It won’t be the same.”
“I mean it. Nothing’s going to change. I just won’t be training to be a warrior anymore. No burden on my shoulders.”
“But you’d make a good warrior. Out of the five of us, you’re the second strongest after Audulf. And the cleverest by far. And you’re giving up after one misfortune?”
“You don’t understand. They wrote a song about me. They mocked me in front of the entire hall. Tomorrow, every man and woman in this fort will laugh when they see me. How can I ever be a king to these people?”
“They will all forget about this in a month. In two, you yourself will be laughing at the memory. You just need to go on more assignments, fight more battles. Let this be just one of many.”
“I don’t think I can do it again. Not with Betula and her men. And I don’t think they’d want me going with them.”
“They will if your father commands them to.”
“My father thinks I’m a joke, too. He did nothing to stop that scop, even though he knew very well what was happening.” I pick up a soapy rag and start to wash my arms. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Why don’t you tell me why you were so late to the feast?”
“It’s because of my mother,” she says, rolling her eyes. She leaps out and sits on the edge, drying herself with a towel. “Some news came yesterday from across the sea, and the magistrates had to gather urgently to discuss it.”
“News?” I sit up, intrigued. “What news?”
“I’m not sure.” She shrugs. “There’s something going on in Gaul…”
“There’s always something going on in Gaul. My father says ever since the Goths sacked Rome, the Empire is like a wounded wild boar: it’s dying but it doesn’t know it yet… and Gaul is like its bleeding heart.”
“This time it may be serious. Mother said she hasn’t seen the magistrates this worried since the Huns.”
“You don’t think… the Huns are back?”
“No, I’m sure she would mention something if they were. It’s probably the Franks, or the Goths… There are so many of those little kingdoms now, it’s hard to keep track of them…”
“I wonder if Haesta leaving Britannia has anything to do with that.” I turn serious. “This is exactly what my father’s always saying. All those little kingdoms, clashing with each other, all those dynasties vying for power and recognition — and the Iutes among them…” I scratch my balls. “Maybe I am being too rash about this. If the Iutes have to start again a generation later than everyone else, we’ll be swallowed whole. Aelle’s got a son now — an heir. So does Ambrosius in the West, at last.”
“He’s waited a long time for this — how old is he now?”
“I don’t know — fifty? And his son is ten, I think?”
“I’m surprised he could still get it up at that age.”
We both laugh. I climb out and start putting on my clothes. “Thank you for this,” I say. “I knew I should’ve talked to you. I feel better already.”
“I know what will really cheer you up,” she says. She slips a white linen tunic over her head and reaches for the woollen plaid breeches. Sometimes I wonder how she’d look in a dress; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear anything other than a shieldmaiden’s garb — or nothing at all. “A chase. It’s been eight months since we raced across these moors.”
“I don’t know… I’m tired, after everything…”
“Come on.” She punches me lightly on the arm. “There are no sacred Iute graves anywhere around here,” she adds with a grin. “And we’ll get some mounts this time, so Gille’s got a chance to win.”
“Mounts, huh…” I scratch the side of my nose. “It has been a long time since we rode together.”
“See? Leave it to me, I’ll arrange everything. And no more talk of going back to Londin — at least not until the race. Promise?”
I smile. “It’s good to have you back, Ursula.”
CHAPTER IV
THE LAY OF AEGIDIUS
I have never ridden a moor pony before. The beasts, bred from a herd discovered by my mother’s people in the heathlands surrounding our colony at the River Meon in the West, are reserved for the Hiréd and the king’s courier service. My father prefers his moor mare, called Frige, to any other mount at his disposal. Even as an aetheling, I could ride any other horse or pony — I once rode a Gaulish war horse around Leman, to see how it felt — but not this one.
I’ve heard legends of how easy they were in the saddle, how smooth their ride, and how resilient they were; sturdy, yet fast, these beasts are supposedly able to travel longer distances and on less feed even than the famous Gaulish war steeds. The tales have all come true. On the flat plain stretching between the tall shores of the Medu and the sand-spits and moors of the peninsula the locals call the Heel, it feels almost like I’m gliding in the air; the occasional bumping of the saddle wood on my rump the only reminder of the pony beneath me. Instead of an effort, this is more like a well-needed rest after the first stage of our chase — a foot race around the Robriwis wall and an arduous swim across the Medu. This isn’t Cantia anymore — the land beyond the Medu belongs to the Briton nobles of Londin; but scarcely anyone lives in these soggy fields, except a few scattered farms we pass along the way, some of them Iutish, some of them Saxon, and a handful still toiled by descendants of the native Briton serfs.
I could almost doze off in the saddle if it wasn’t for the sight of Gille’s back, a hundred paces before me. Son of Frisian horse traders, Gille is a natural in the saddle and, just like Ursula predicted, quickly made up for the losses in the foot and swim races and shot ahead of the rest of us. With the boat race still before us, I don’t worry about catching up to him — just keeping close enough to make up for the distance on the sea.
Ursula was right about one other thing. The chase does make me feel better. I feel like the innocent youth I was three years ago, when all five of us met at Rutubi for the first time. Shunned by the Iutes our age, we came up with the idea of the chase as training that we could do on our own, away from the court halls, away from the villages. I can’t remember who was the first to propose it — either me or Audulf; but since then, we have tried to organise a chase at least once every time my father’s court moves to a new place.
If I move to Londin, we’ll never be able to do this again. My father reminded me of this when he intercepted me on my way to the stables.
“Off to the race?” he asked. I nodded silently.
“I’m envious of how close you are with your friends,” he told me. “I could never hold on to mine.”
“What about Betula?”
“She was always more your mother’s friend than mine.”
“If you treated your friends the way you treat your family, I’m not surprised.”
He winced. “I’m sorry about the feast, son. But you shouldn’t let it bother you so. It was a harmless jest.”
“Harmless? You call all that sneering and jeering harmless?”
“You’ll have to suffer far worse insults in your life. And take them with dignity. Treat this as a lesson in leadership — even a king must allow his subjects to laugh at him once in a while.”
“You should have stopped them.”
“The men were weary. They deserved entertainment. They would have been angered and insulted if I denied them this little diversion. I spoke to the scop — he will not sing that song again. As far as I’
m concerned, the matter is closed.”
“And what about my concerns?”
“What more would you have me do? You told me yourself you didn’t want to hide behind my authority — I can’t punish anyone for what happened. Trust me, if you forget about it, so will everyone else. They are warriors. They don’t have time to dwell on such trivialities. Next time, you’ll just have to…”
“And will there ever be a next time?”
He smiled. “I’m afraid there will be plenty of next times — if you decide to stay here, that is.” He looked to the sky and sighed. “I need to gather the court.” He nodded towards the stables. “Your friends are waiting. For now, don’t worry about any of that. Enjoy yourself.”
I didn’t need his encouragement to enjoy myself on the chase. As soon as I mounted the moor pony, all my worries seemed to fade away. Nothing could mar my enjoyment of this day.
The waters here are more shallow than at the Tanet Channel — I could almost walk along the bottom — and calmer. It’s only a mile to row, but it’s a maze between the islands of rushes, sand-spits and reefs of smooth boulders. I can’t see Audulf, but he can’t be too far ahead. Ursula is right behind me, but I can’t see her, either, hidden in the narrow bends.
In a few more thrusts of the oar, I reach a dune spur, prodding deep into the sea. I steer with one oar and, to save strength, let the current, stronger in this stretch of the sea, push me around the promontory. The strait soon widens; here, the canal between the tidal islets meets the mighty Tamesa estuary, a stretch of brackish water many miles wide, reaching out into the Narrow Sea.
When we don’t race, this is a good place for watching ships plying the Narrow Sea as they sail to and from Londin’s quays. Sleek ceols from the Saxon lands, broader, heavier vessels from Frankia, and once in a rare while, a long, bulky merchant galley from Gaul, whose owner, disbelieving the reports of his competitors, ventured on the long journey to Britannia in futile hope of finding some goods they could get a decent profit on back home.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 6
