“They arrive in small packs, on foot,” Hildrik explained, when I asked him what sort of enemy we can expect. “They are the easiest prey when they’ve already done some pillaging. Then they’re weary and laden with plunder. But of course, it’s best if we intercept them before they cause too much harm.”
The spirits of my men are high. The Iutes sing a marching song; I’m familiar with the melody, but neither I, nor any of my friends know the words. Still, I remain tense. Another dark wall of forest approaches from the north. Soon, the Roman road will descend into a ravine, carved through the trees like a river gorge cuts through rock. I can only hope that Hildrik is right, and that there are no bandits waiting for us in what would be a perfect ambush site.
I look back. A hundred paces behind us is the front of the Frankish column: ten men, marching in a neat line spread across the width of the road. Hildrik’s force is no mere barbarian warband but a centuria, organised in the manner of a Legion, divided into squads of ten, each commanded by its own officer and carrying its own tents and supplies on the backs of mules. It’s clear Hildrik, and at least some of his officers, have been studying the Roman art of war — maybe even been on its receiving end themselves?
Hildrik rides at the head of the column on his white Thuringian steed; next to him, on the white mare, is his betrothed. Like Hildrik, she’s wearing a long mail shirt and a silver helmet topped with a figurine of a bull; she’s got a lance slung across her back, and a Hunnish bow, double-curved, of glued wood and horn, resting in a leather arrow bag at her saddle.
The night before our departure, Basina visited me in my room in Tornac’s guesthouse. She came alone, wearing a hooded cloak, sneaking in like a night thief. Her presence made me uneasy. Why would she keep the visit a secret from Hildrik and the king? I was a guest at Meroweg’s court. She was his son’s betrothed. She could request that I see her whenever, and wherever, she pleased.
“I’m impressed,” she said. She sat down on my bed, only a couple of feet away from me. In the damp cold of the night, the thin cloth of her tunic left little to the imagination. “You came here in shackles, unarmed, with just your three companions. Now you’re in command of a cavalry unit, marching alongside my Hildrik to battle.”
“I am a king’s son, after all,” I replied, mustering a proud smile.
“But why have you returned from Bononia?” she asked. “I thought you wanted to go back to Gaul.”
“I’m going to, eventually,” I replied. “I thought I would try to gain some experience in combat before throwing myself into the Empire’s war.”
She nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”
“I will be back soon,” I blurted, a bit too hastily. She laughed.
“Oh, but I’m coming with you!” she said.
“You are?”
“Of course. A Thuringian woman always accompanies her man to the battle.”
“That means…” It took me a second. “…you were there when your husband was defeated.”
“Yes. I witnessed his disgrace,” she replied. “I saw his armies wither before the enemy. I was forced to flee the field of the battle with his entire household.” She laid a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think I would survive such a humiliation again.”
I swallowed. “I’m sure Hildrik will prove himself more than a capable leader in battle.”
“But what if he doesn’t…?” With this, and a touch of fingers like a butterfly landing on my face, she left me to my uneasy dreams.
I look over my shoulder again. For a moment, our eyes meet; from the distance I can’t tell the expression on Basina’s face. I still don’t know what she was trying to tell me. Did she want me to protect Hildrik, to make sure he would never lose a battle on this campaign? Or did she mean that if her betrothed fails to meet her expectations, I was the next in line in her quest for power?
She raises her hand, clad in kidskin glove, and gives me a slow wave. I feel my cheeks glow red and turn away. I hear Ursula giggle. I tut at the pony and ride to the front of the formation.
The dark walls of the Charcoal Forest hem us in on both sides. A lone kite shrills in the sky.
We spot the column of thick, black smoke a mile off, rising high over the treetops. I order the men to ride onwards to investigate. Soon, we leave Hildrik’s force far behind.
“What if it’s a trap?” asks Ursula.
“Who here would set up a trap for an entire army?” I laugh nervously. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than a charcoal burner’s hut on fire…”
The forest parts onto a broad clearing on either side of the Roman road. A large village sprawls onto the road itself, leaving only a narrow, paved passage between the houses, leading to what looks like a small marketplace or village square. The houses vary in shape and size; the largest one is a long, timber hall, built along the axis of the highway. The others are similar to the Iute and Saxon huts in Britannia, of daub and wattle, with thick thatched roofs, or smaller dug-in huts used for storage. Charcoal pits and several iron smelting furnaces line the edges of the forest.
The timber hall, and several storage huts beside it, are in flames. I feel a surge of panic; I close my eyes and force my breath to calm down. It’s alright. I’m on the outside. These flames can’t hurt me.
I focus on the bodies on the road to keep my mind from the fire. I count eight dead, hacked with axes. A few more are scattered among the huts. I tell Audulf and Ursula to dismount and order the others to stay vigilant while we search for clues.
“There’s a lot of footprints disappearing into the forest,” says Ursula. “Everywhere.”
“That would be the villagers fleeing,” I guess. “The bandits wouldn’t be interested in them once they got what they came for.”
I nod towards the smouldering grain store, raised on stone piles over the damp ground, its door stuck open, a trail of barley and oats strewn around the foundations. Of the pile of iron ingots by the foundries, only a few remain, forgotten by the plunderers.
Whoever attacked the village, made no effort to hide their route. None of us is a tracker, but it doesn’t take a tracker to follow the trail of dragged dirt, spilled grain, muddy footprints, all leading east, up the Roman road.
“It can’t be a large band,” I say, looking at the prints. “Twenty men, maybe.”
I order Odilia to ride back to Hildrik with news of what we found here, then tell the rest to mount up and make ready — for battle.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” asks Gille.
“We don’t need them. It’s just some bandits, heaving with plunder.” I’m surprised by my own confidence. Moments ago, I feared meeting an enemy. Now, I’m looking forward to it. “We’ll wipe them out. For Rex Aeric!”
I raise a fist and the Iutes join me in a war cry.
Half an hour after we set out from the burnt-out village, Odilia, sent out to check the road ahead, returns in a hurry.
“I saw them a mile away,” she says, “beyond the great bend. You were right, Hlaford. There can’t be more than twenty of them, and they march slowly.”
“Did they see you?”
Odilia scratches her head. “They… may have.”
“No matter. They can’t set up a defence line in the middle of a paved road.”
I ride out in front of the group and set the pace. A trot first, then, as we near the bend, a quicker step. My breath hardens. I focus all my thoughts on the task before us, in an effort to stem the doubt creeping in.
I am about to lead fifteen men and women into battle. I, whose only combat experience is getting myself almost killed by some random bandit. What makes me more suitable to command the Iutes than anyone else in the squadron? Seawine radiates more authority than I ever did; Audulf is a better fighter, Gille a better rider, and Ursula shows more calm and common sense. Is an accident of birth really all it takes to be a leader?
As we emerge from beyond the bend, I see the bandits lined across the breadth of the highway. I frown, seeing some of them
have shields and spears, and form into a primitive shield wall. These are no normal forest bandits; they should have dispersed into the forest, seeing the approaching cavalry, not prepare for a fight. But it’s too late to turn back now. An accident of birth or not, the Iutes entrusted me with their command, and I can’t disappoint them now. I spur my pony into a gallop and raise the sword high. I glance over my shoulder. Ursula, Audulf, Gille and Seawine form arms of a wedge behind me. The rest of the Iutes ride behind in a loose crowd, not even attempting to shape a formation. Some draw swords, others, too certain of their skill, reach for the lances. I’m reminded of Odo’s words — a lance is the weapon of a trained rider. I can only hope we’ll manage to vanquish the enemy before any of my men hurt themselves…
“Remember your training!” I shout at them. “Charge and turn. Don’t stay in place. And avoid those spears!”
The Iutes respond with another war cry. I look to Ursula. Gone is her usual levity. Deadly serious, she nods, and tightens the chin-strap of her helmet. Audulf draws a lance; I shake my head, but he just grins.
“Spread out,” I tell my friends. “Attack the flanks.”
At a hundred paces from the line of shields, I launch into a full gallop. I focus on the tips of two spears in the middle of the enemy line. I guide my mount at the shield raised between them and brace myself. The pony’s chest strikes the shield; I hold on to the reins as the force of the impact propels me forward. I would be in trouble if my enemies were trained warriors; but the man I charge into drops the shield and covers his head with his hands. I strike down. My sword cuts through his arms and splits his skull. I have no time to ponder the man’s death — my first kill. I push forward to attack the warrior in the second line. He swirls an axe. I parry the blow and tug on the reins. The pony rears and, as it drops back on all fours, I bring down my sword. The blade crashes through the shaft of the enemy’s axe, his fingers, and ends in the collarbone. The man falls down with a howl.
To my sides, Ursula and Audulf break even further through the enemy line; Audulf holds a broken shaft of the lance and uses it as a club. Ursula stabs and whacks at the shields of the men around her as her pony pushes forward. Seawine, having ridden around the enemy’s flank down the roadside, turns around and charges at the bandits’ rear.
Furthest to my left, Gille is struggling, entangled between the spears and axes of the enemy, unable to reach anyone with his blade. I kick away a man trying to strike at me with a long knife, then ride around to help Gille out. I sheathe the sword and draw a lance. I throw it at the chest of the man charging at Gille from the flank. The bandit throws his arms apart and falls backwards, breaking the shields behind him. Just at that moment, the rest of my squadron smashes into the enemy. Eleven war ponies, crushing the men under their hooves at full speed, destroy what little unity there was left of the enemy line. The bandits abandon any pretence of standing their ground. Dropping their shields and weapons, they scatter in all directions. Most run in panic down the Roman road. These ones are easily dispatched by Audulf, Ursula and Seawine, catching up to them and slashing across their backs. Others try to flee into the woods, where they think horses can’t follow. But we are not riding horses — we ride moor ponies, used to finding their way through thick undergrowth. Within minutes, all but a few of the bandits lie slain by our swords and lances. What few have managed to disappear among the oaks and beeches can’t be worth a pursuit.
I return to the road. Hildrik’s host emerges from beyond the bend. They’re running towards us, but they’re too late to share in our glory. I look around. All of my men are alive, and only two are lightly wounded. We destroyed a band of some twenty warriors. I killed three of them myself — a feat worthy of song. I raise a triumphal yell, echoed by my men.
I dismount to examine the fallen. I pick through the shattered shields, trampled spears and the long, single-bladed knives. I study the patterns embroidered into their capes and images painted on the shields, and my concern deepens.
“What are you looking for?” asks Ursula.
“Something doesn’t add up,” I say. “I don’t know what kinds of bandits they have in Gaul — but these are no ordinary forest roughs. Look at these patterns and designs.”
“Saxon, aren’t they?” notes Audulf. “We knew we’d meet them sooner or later.”
“Not just any Saxons,” I reply. “These are Aelle’s men. Some of them, at least.”
“Aelle? Are you sure?” Ursula’s mouth twists in doubt. “What would they be doing here?”
“I’m not sure — and I don’t know. But if I’m right, then this mission just turned into something other than a mere border patrol…”
“The Saxons have never ventured this deep before,” says Hildrik with a concerned frown. “The River Franks would have stopped them long before the Charcoal Forest. I don’t like this.”
According to our guides, we are only a few miles from the forest’s end. I still observe the trees with unease, though I doubt the Saxons would send two raiding parties into the forest. I won’t breathe with relief until I see open plain again.
We dug no graves for the slain warriors. We had no time, and they did not deserve a warrior’s funeral, having fared so poorly in battle. We piled them all on the side of the road and left them for the wolves and the crows. I then dispatched one of my riders back to the burnt-out settlement, to tell the returning villagers of our victory and assure them it’s safe for them to return to what’s left of their homes and pick up the spoils we won back from the Saxons.
“The River Franks?” I ask.
“That’s what we call the clans who live along the Rhenum,” he says. “They have their own chieftains, and are not subject to my father’s rule, but they remain our friends. We should soon meet them.”
I meet Basina’s gaze. She nods with a smile. I straighten my back and puff up my chest. All my doubt is gone. I washed off my shame in Saxon blood. I am a proud commander of a victorious cavalry squadron. I can’t believe our first triumph was this easy. I’m aware that these were just some foragers, split off from the main host to gather supplies; but there were warriors among them, better trained and more experienced than any of us. I pat my pony’s neck. What a difference having a war mount makes!
I glance back and notice Gille’s pony slow down. The Frisian boy lowers his head in a sulk. I ride up to his side.
“What’s wrong?”
He raises his right hand, trembling, still red with Saxon blood.
“I’ve never killed a man before,” he says.
The triumphant song in my heart turns into a mournful dirge. The battle rush recedes. I realise my own hands are trembling, too. I also just killed my first man. Several men. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to think about it.
“All those Saxons we slew would have been somebody’s fathers, sons or brothers,” says Gille. “There was a woman there who was my mother’s age. I let her run away.”
“Those villagers they killed, they also had families,” I remind him. “And they didn’t even get a chance to defend themselves.”
I look at Gille again. The boy is still shaken, and I wonder if what happened today is at all what he expected when he joined me on this adventure. We were supposed to see the great cities of Gaul, not fight Saxons in the dark forests of Frankia.
“We all trained ourselves to be warriors,” I say. “This is what warriors do. It’s not all just one, long, exciting adventure filled with glory and treasure.”
“It is in the scops songs.”
“Life is not a scop’s song, my father always says. There will be more blood in our path — and more death. Somebody must always pay for the warrior’s glory. Perhaps it’s better we learn this truth while we’re still young.”
“Perhaps,” Gille says. “I just hope it’s not we who will one day pay for the glory of someone else. I’m not ready. There isn’t anyone who’d mourn me, other than my parents and you three — and no one I could mourn when they die…”
I nod in agreement. We were fortunate today. We may not be so fortunate next time. I know many Iutes would make a show of mourning my passing if I was slain by some Saxon’s spear — but who among them would do that to ingratiate themselves before my father, and who would be truly sincere in their regrets? I can think of a few who would be relieved by my death — maybe even rejoice in it.
One unhappy thought breeds another. The doubt creeps back in. We were fortunate that our first enemy proved so weak. I gambled the lives of my men on that, and this time, I was successful — but if the shield wall held just for a moment longer, if there were just a few more trained warriors in the line, how many of us would have perished, and how much worse the mood in the squadron now would be? Perhaps even some of the Iutes would decide they did not, after all, want to follow my lead on this adventure — and I wouldn’t blame them…
I need to be more careful. Who knows how long this mission is going to be, how many more battles we’ll have to fight? Next time, we might not be so blessed.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LAY OF WELDELF
We soon learn what the passing of a war really means to a countryside. We catch the first glimpse of the destruction at Mosa, a river almost as broad and deep as the Tamesa in Londin. The Romans built a bridge here, a long time ago, and it still stands, with only a few holes and gaps — not as grand as the one in Londin, but still an impressive piece of engineering. Many of the Iutes in our band have clearly not seen anything as magnificent before, judging by their gasps of awe and disbelief.
The bridge was once a blessing for Traiect, the small town which grew around it, and the Legions’ fort guarding the vital passage. But, when the enemy came marching down the Roman road, it turned into a curse. The low walls and round towers of the small outpost on the far side of the river stood little chance of stopping the invading army. The enemy poured across the bridge and sacked the fort, the town, and the villas around it.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 13
