I realise that even this pretend wedding is yet another event in my life that my father never got to experience. His beloved Rhedwyn was abducted by Wortimer on the day of their betrothal, and she died in Wortimer’s thrall; he never married my mother. And here I am, aged eighteen, being wedded to my best friend as a mere ruse for regicide.
What is happening to my life?
“Have you the gifts?” asks Meroweg.
“Ja, we do,” says Hildrik. He and Basina step up, each holding a bundle of cloth. Basina unravels hers first: it is a small, round shield, to be presented to me by Ursula as symbol of protection. Then Hildrik shows the gift that I am to give to Ursula: a brand-new seax, to show I am ready to fight for her and our family. It is the only weapon allowed on the hallowed top of the mound; all the guards were required to leave their swords and axes by the ox cart at the foot of the barrow. Though ceremonial, with a finely carved handle, the blade is still sharp.
It is now time to finish the ceremony. Meroweg moves from behind the altar and comes up to us with a length of white linen embroidered with runes and those strange bee symbols that are so ubiquitous in Tornac.
“Your hands,” he says.
Ursula and I reach out. I glance at Hildrik nervously. With the fasting of hands, my marriage to Ursula will be bound in the eyes of the gods, even if this is all just a trap…
Meroweg wraps the linen around our extended hands and begins another chant. Hildrik nods. Ursula and I grab Meroweg’s hands in ours. He looks up, surprised.
“This is not how —” he starts.
Hildrik whirls the seax in his grip and thrusts it under his father’s ribs with a grunt. Blood splatters the white robe and the white linen cloth. Meroweg cries out and pulls back, grasping at Hildrik’s wrist. They struggle for a while, before Basina bashes Meroweg on the head with the round shield. Blood and brain spurt from the crushed skull and onto my robe, but Meroweg, miraculously, still stands.
“I… am… the king… of Franks!” he grunts. He pushes Basina away, tears the seax from his side and turns it against Hildrik. He lunges forward, missing his son by an inch. The blade goes past me. I grab his wrist and twist; the sword falls to the floor. Ursula stoops to pick it up and throws it back to Hildrik. He grabs his father by the hair and slices his throat.
I step back, feeling sick. I look around; Hildrik’s guards and the Iutes draw hidden blades from under their robes and make short work of Meroweg’s unarmed retinue. The last of the Franks tries to run away down the hill, to the weapons cart; Basina picks up a knife from the ground. The blade lands in the Frank’s back, as true as if it was an arrow shot from her Hunnish bow.
I drop to my knees, heaving. I look at my hands — they’re stained with royal blood. It really happened. In the presence of the gods, before Wodan and Frige, we have just killed a king.
Hildrik kneels down by his father and, with a sharp slash of the knife, cuts off his long locks. He then looks up to me. His face is grey. He’s breathing heavily.
“It is done,” he says. “There’s no turning back now. Thank you for your help, aetheling.”
“You are welcome…” I bow deeply. Everyone around us kneels, even Basina. “…Rex Hildrik.”
The water in the bowl is as clear now as it was when I drew it from the well; my hands are clean, too, they must be, even if I can’t tell by the dim light of the oil lamp, but still I can’t stop scrubbing them.
Meroweg was just a man. A powerful man of his tribe to call himself a Rex, but still, just a man; if I met him in battle as an enemy, I would have no qualms about slaying him. But this wasn’t a battle, and he wasn’t my enemy. He was my father’s friend, an ally to the Iutes; he freed Iutish captives and welcomed me to his household. And then I helped his son slaughter him like a sacrificial bull… because of politics, because of diplomacy.
Maybe I am so shattered by what I’ve done because Meroweg reminded me so much of my own father, another Drihten turned Rex, another ruler of a heathen tribe living on Roman soil; I, too, grew up not knowing my father; I, too, disagree with his politics, with the way he rules the tribe. What if, through some twist of cruel fates, I would one day be forced to do to my father what Hildrik has done to his? Would I be able to do it as easily?
Somebody knocks. Thinking it must be Ursula, returning from a night of drinking with Audulf, I open the door — only to see Basina, wearing the same tight, thin tunic she wore on the night before we first left Tornac.
She lets herself in before I can say anything and sits down on my bed.
“I have never seen a funeral so quick,” she says. “Certainly not of someone so important.”
I detect a tinge of regret in her voice, maybe even shame?
“You didn’t seem so fond of Meroweg yesterday when you bashed in his skull.”
“A king deserves ceremony,” she replies, shaking her head. “I know we’re in a hurry, but Hildrik could have at least let his father burn before putting him in the ground.”
To properly dispose of Meroweg’s body, would have taken a great pyre and at least three days of burning, followed by a prescribed period of mourning. But Hildrik did not want to give the Franks — and the king’s surviving wife, Queen Clodeswinthe — too much time to wonder what happened to their monarch when he and his retinue perished on the way to the barrow mound; or how a troop of River Franks found itself so near the Salian capital.
This was the official explanation, and it fell on fertile ground. The Salians never trusted their eastern brethren; they knew Hildebert was growing in strength, expanding his army and territory — at the cost of the walhas at first, true, but now that he had Coln and all the land around it, was it so unexpected that he’d want to strike West? Wodan knew the Salians would do the same in his place… And what better way to sow chaos in the enemy ranks than to kill their Rex on the eve of a campaign?
And now, like a weathervane changing direction upon the evening breeze, the mood switched in an instant. Instead of marching south, against the Roman garrisons in Gaul, the fyrd was clamouring to march east — against the River Franks, and their ally, Odowakr. This last piece of information was new to everyone, including Meroweg’s advisors, but they had no reason to disbelieve the king’s son — and myself.
“That was the news I was bringing from Trever,” I told them, when we brought Meroweg’s body back from the barrow mound. “I knew Odowakr and Hildebert were plotting something against you and your Rex, but I had no idea they would be so bold…”
So far, Hildrik’s plan was working out perfectly. Nobody, not even the royal widow, suspected anything, or if they did, they were keeping quiet. Hildrik was the only rightful heir, and without a witan, there wasn’t anyone to object to his quick ascension to the throne, or the way he handled the succession.
“It makes me worried about tomorrow,” says Basina. “I didn’t want our special day to be some hasty ritual in the middle of a war camp that’s being dismantled.”
“Tomorrow?” I ask. “What do you mean, ‘special day’?”
“You haven’t heard?” She looks up. “A king needs his queen.”
“You’re getting married? Who’s conducting the ceremony?”
“Queen Clodeswinthe. It’s the last official duty she’ll perform before Hildrik takes over the rule of the tribe.” She laughs, seeing the expression on my face. “Don’t look so sad,” she says. She puts her hand on my cheek. “Hildrik is the king of the Franks now. You are still only a king’s son. I have made my choice.”
“I… I understand.” I move away, but she grabs my tunic and pulls me back to her.
“I am not his wife yet,” she whispers and leans to kiss me. I give in for a moment, then push her away, gasping for breath.
“What are you —”
She grins. “You deserve a reward for everything you’ve done,” she says. She unties her tunic and takes it off. It’s the first time I have seen her like this; her naked body is as perfect as her face. She smells of smoke and soa
p. My breath quickens. My manhood stretches my breeches to bursting.
“You brought back my bow,” she says, and I think of how her lips resemble that Hunnish weapon. She takes my hand and puts it on her breast. “Ursula told me what you did to get it back.” I caress her; she inhales sharply and lets out a quiet moan. “And then you convinced my betrothed to make that one final step to become the most powerful man in Gaul.”
We kiss again. I push her gently down onto the bed. “He’s only a Rex of Salians,” I say between kisses.
“For now,” she says. “But a man who’s willing to kill his own father and lie to his mother and the entire tribe to get what he wants is destined for greatness.”
I let her nipple out of my mouth.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“He sliced his father’s throat in cold blood just because he disagreed with his politics,” I say. “What’s he going to do if he finds out what we did?”
With a laugh, she unfastens her breeches and kicks them off to the floor.
“Hildrik knows,” she says. “He, too, thinks you deserve a reward for what you did for him.”
She grabs my head and pulls me down between her powerful thighs. Somewhere at the back of my head, a nagging voice tells me she’s only doing this to distract me from wondering if I did the right thing; to ensure my loyalty to her and her husband. But all rational thought disappears as soon as I breathe in her moist lust and lose my mind inside her.
We crawl through the undergrowth, javelins in hand, in a long, spread-out line. Six feet to my right, Ursula and my Iute riders — six feet to my left, Betula and her Hiréd; we are the centre of the wide crescent, the arms of which, disappearing deeper into the wood, are formed of the Frankish hunters, more experienced in this wood.
One last hunt before we march out. My heart’s not in it — it’s another unnecessary delay; but the woodsmen of Charcoal Forest brought news of a great herd of deer appearing suddenly on the western outskirts, led by a magnificent old stag; the Frankish augurs interpreted it as Donar’s blessing for the campaign, and for Hildrik’s succession, a well-needed signal that Meroweg’s death did not anger the gods — quite the opposite. Hildrik had no choice but to announce the hunt for the stag and its hinds. There is a practical side to it — if we gather enough fresh meat today, we will have less need for forage along the way, so the Franks will be able to march faster towards Trever. And so will we — if I decide we should do so…
I can’t think of a good enough reason for us to accompany the Salian fyrd, for me to risk the lives not just of the handful of Iute riders, but of the entire Iutish Hiréd on some expedition that has nothing to do with the fate of my father’s kingdom. Do I really care so much about the fate of Trever — a city the existence of which I wasn’t even aware of just a few months ago? Do I care this much about Gaul, about the Empire? Surely, I’ve already done more to help the Empire than anyone could expect of a boy from faraway Britannia. Is it because of that elusive quality I’ve heard so much about since I came here — warrior’s honour? I must have been spending too long in the company of Hildrik and his men. The only explanation of my continuing presence here must be that I still feel bound by duty to do so; we promised to help Hildrik defeat the Saxon warband, back when he was still just a king’s son, and when the warband was supposed to be just another raiding party; but the circumstances have changed so dramatically since then — does that not absolve me of my duty?
I notice that, as we creep forth, Betula is shortening the distance between us. It can’t be an accident — she wants something from me.
“How many warriors did Aelle send to Odowakr’s help?” she asks when she’s close enough for a whisper.
“A large ceol, at least,” I reply. “That’s what the captive told me at Ake.”
“Fifty men,” Betula grunts.
“Is it a lot?”
“It’s plenty. More than Aeric ever sent to help the Franks.”
“Does it matter? I thought my father was worried about Haesta, not Aelle.”
“That’s because we didn’t know everything. Haesta is a local threat. A nuisance on the border. Aelle is our real enemy. Since you’ve been gone, his war of words has only intensified. It’s as if he’s feeling stronger now than he’s ever been in the past three years… No doubt because of these new alliances.”
“And now his ally is looking to raise an Imperator of his own,” I note.
“You know more about these politics than I do,” she replies. “But I can only imagine how much more powerful Aelle would grow if it turns out he’s bet on the right chariot. A friend of an Imperator, one with a seat so close, in Gaul… He might even reach for the Dux’s circlet.”
We pause. There’s a rustle in the ferns ahead; it’s just a fox — a red streak runs across the path. The pause gives me a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Then we have no choice,” I say. “We have to go with Hildrik and try to save Trever from falling. It’s as my father feared — the tribes of Britannia got themselves entangled in the great politics of the Empire, whether we wanted to or not.”
“I thought you’d already decided that we were going?” Betula asks, surprised.
“I wasn’t sure.” I share my doubts with her.
She smiles. “You’re starting to think like a leader who cares for his men, not just for himself. It took your father years to get there.”
I wasn’t looking for her praise, but I feel pleasantly tickled by it. I open my mouth to respond, but another rustle in the bushes interrupts me. It’s a small roe deer — not from the herd we’re after, running not from us but across our way, leaping over an overturned oak in panic.
“What’s going on with these animals?” asks Betula with a frown. “Something else than us is scaring them.”
The earth under my feet trembles. Some great animal is heading our way — if it’s the stag, or a wild boar, it’ll be the heaviest I’ve ever seen. Betula calls at me and Ursula to the gnarled oak.
“Climb!” she cries. I’ve never seen her like this — almost as if she’s scared, but what could possibly scare the valiant Gesith?
I order Ursula to go first, then climb after her. I reach down to Betula just as a giant brown bear storms out of the bushes. I grab her hand and pull up at the last moment — the bear’s paw swipes inches from her rear.
It’s easy to see why the bear is so furious — half of a broken javelin sticks out of its side, leaving a bloody trail. The beast stands on its hind legs and leans against the oak’s trunk, sniffing. It’s blinded in one eye by a fresh scar; other, shallow wounds pock its hide. Somewhere in the forest, it must have fought a terrible battle with the Frankish hunters, who would have stumbled upon it by accident deep in the wilderness. The bear’s presence explains the arrival of the deer herd in this part of the woods — but where did the bear itself come from?
“Hold me,” says Betula, nodding at her waist. I grab her and hold on as tight as I can. She leans forward over the bear, aims her javelin carefully and throws. The narrow blade hits the animal’s head just an inch over the healthy eye. It adds another terrible scar to the collection but fails to penetrate the skull. The bear drops back to its feet and shakes its head with an angry grunt.
“Next tree,” says Betula. “Quickly.”
The three of us move over the branches to a tall beech. Betula, despite having only one arm, climbs the fastest. I glance over my shoulder — the bear now starts to climb the oak we just left; if we had stayed there, it would have already reached us…
“Ursula, your turn,” Betula orders.
Ursula nods. She throws without aiming — the target, now facing us with its flank, is big enough. The javelin strikes near the heart, wobbles, and falls off; a spurt of bright blood means the wound is serious. The bear groans and falls off the tree. Its fall shakes the forest.
Before it manages to stand back up, I leap back, from branch to branch, drawing my long knife. “Aetheling, no!” Betula crie
s, but she can’t let go of the tree to stop me or she’d fall herself. I reach the oak, descend to the lowest branch — and jump down on the beast’s back. I grasp at its fur as it rears and roars, trying to throw me off. I stab it repeatedly in the neck and sides, bathing in the beast’s blood as if in a baptismal fountain. The stench of the beast’s anger and fear are overpowering; I lose myself in it just as I lost myself in Basina’s smell. At last, the bear succeeds, and I land in the ferns; but by now, it’s too weak to go after me — and by now, we’re no longer alone.
Hildrik and Basina ride out onto the glade. Basina pierces the bear’s healthy eye with an arrow, and Hildrik throws a deft javelin straight into its heart. With a final mighty groan, the bear stands on its rear legs, waves its front paws futilely in the air, and falls on its side.
Betula leaps down from the tree and helps me up from the ferns.
“Are you alright, aetheling?”
I’m covered in blood, but none of it is my own.
“You’re just as mad as your father,” she says. “One swipe of that paw could’ve torn you in half!”
“What a hunt!” Hildrik cries, excitedly, riding up to us. He dismounts; his face is flushed red. “A bear! In these woods! This is an even better augury than the stag.”
“How so?” I ask, rubbing my aching back.
“The bear is the messenger of the gods,” he replies. “Sacred among the tribes beyond Rhenum that form Odowakr’s army,” he replies. “The Saxons, the Alemanns, the Longbeards… It is why their best warriors wear bearskin shirts. And we slayed it together, Iutes and Franks, side by side. This must be a message from the gods!”
He shakes me by the shoulders and I raise a weak cheer. Bearskin shirts. As I look at the blood-splattered fur of the fallen bear, and the strange awe I felt in its presence recedes, I feel an inkling of an idea appear in my mind.
“I’m starting to get sick of the sight of this place,” I say, looking at the walls of Tolbiac, looming in a thin dark line on the flat horizon. “I’m now as familiar with it as with Robriwis.”
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 32
