The saxon might, p.23
The Saxon Might, page 23
part #3 of The Song of Ash Series
What the merchants did with all that land is anyone’s guess. Some have sold it on, to other landlords, looking to cheaply expand their property. Others, somewhat misguided in their optimism, held on to it in hopes of selling it at a better price in the future, when the nobles decide to return. Others still, if they could find no buyers, leased it to the barbarians, in exchange for protection; at least in Iute hands, the land would be kept safe from going fallow and falling prey to bandits and raiders. Several new settlements in Cantiaca started this way.
I stop to listen.
“I told you, I can only get you to Armorica for that kind of money,” the merchant explains, rubbing his hands.
“What am I going to do in Armorica?” The nobleman raises his arms. “I don’t know anyone in Armorica! My family’s in Gallaecia. You promised to take me to Gallaecia.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous the Cantabrian Sea is at this time of year? The Suebians no longer guarantee safe passage, and the new king of the Visigoths…”
“I’m giving you all of my land! How is it not enough?”
“That muddy field full of rocks? It’s not even on the right side of the river. You should be happy to get that much for it.”
“And a swathe of prime hunting wood!”
“Only a mad man would go hunting in Andreda.”
I step closer. “Hey,” I call, “what land are you talking about?”
The merchant eyes me with suspicion, but the nobleman is eager to share his indignation, even with a barbarian. “Two villages and a hunting grove on the west bank of the Medu, not far from Aelle’s Ford.”
Aelle’s Ford?
“Where the road narrows?”
His face brightens. “You know the place!”
It can’t be a coincidence. It must be the gods, offering me some kind of omen. A chance for redemption, perhaps…
“How much are you asking for the passage to Gallaecia?” I ask the merchant.
“Four gold solids.”
Four gold solids is an annual salary of a Council clerk — or an equivalent of the yearly profits from a small villa. The price is staggering, even to a nobleman. Few people outside of Londin’s rich elite have ever even seen a whole gold solid, the most valuable of old Roman coins. I recall a handful of them lying buried in a pot somewhere on the grounds of Ariminum, to be used as a last resort in a crisis. Naturally, what would change hands here would not be the coins themselves, but their equivalent in hacked silver, clipped bronze or, in the worst case scenario for both sides, farm produce.
“You could buy a ship for that money!” I say.
The merchant shrugs and smiles slyly. “You might, but who would man it? I and my friends own the only crews capable of crossing the Cantabrian Sea at this time of year.”
“I’ll give you four solids for your land,” I tell the nobleman. Both men guffaw. It’s a ridiculous offer for what amounts to a scrap of muddy field and a few clusters of mud huts.
“If I knew the Iutes had that kind of money, I’d drive a harder bargain with you,” says the merchant.
“Not ‘Iutes’,” I reply. “Just me.”
“And you are?”
“Someone with four gold solids in his chest.”
“What do you want with my land, heathen?” asks the nobleman. “Your lot are not allowed to settle west of the Medu, anyway.”
“What do you care? You’re sailing to Gallaecia. You’ll never be back. Your land is mine now.”
There is an ominous double meaning to my words — a Iute, saying this to a Briton — which doesn’t escape either of us. Silenced, the nobleman looks to his feet, while the merchant extends his grubby hands towards me, to seal the deal. I nod at my servants to bring my travelling coin chest from the boat. I do have a couple of actual gold solids from Pascent’s treasure wrapped in a bundle around my waist, but those are for emergencies. An equivalent weight of hacked silver will have to suffice instead.
“Send the deed to the Bishop at Saint Paul’s,” I tell the merchant, after he’s studied the contents of my chest to his satisfaction. “And don’t think of cheating, I will check if he got it.”
The merchant winces. “A Church grant. There’s been a lot of that lately. As if the priests weren’t rich enough already.”
“You’re a man of Faith?” the nobleman lights up. “Forgive me, I didn’t know —”
“It’s none of your business,” I reply to both of them. “Now go, before I change my mind. The gods know there are better things I could spend four gold solids on.”
I wave at the servants, and we depart north, past the ruined Roman fortress, towards the new Iute lands.
CHAPTER XIII
THE LAY OF BETULA
I lower my sword. At the signal, six Iute spearmen charge, in a wedge formation, at a double line of round shields held by another ten Iutes on the other side of the arena: our field of practice is the ruin of the Rutubi amphitheatre. The two groups clash with great clamour; the front line buckles where the end of the wedge smashes in, but doesn’t budge, supported by the second row of shields. I wave a hand. Five more warriors spring up from their hiding place behind a low-sprawling yew tree growing out of what once was the entrance for the gladiators, and strike at the flank of the shieldsmen. The shield wall pulls back, but one of the shieldsmen at the back loses his footing and falls, pulling the others with him, and the wall breaks apart.
“No, no, no!” I raise my hands in despair. “You’re supposed to fold away, cover each other’s sides! Betula, show them how it’s done.”
I stopped calling her ‘Birch’ after she and Raven agreed to join my new Hiréd as officers. She hesitated a long time; after recovering from her wounds under Fastidius’s care, she was considering joining the Church as an acolyte, hoping in this way to repay God for what she saw as miraculous healing. In the end, loyalty prevailed over faith — not to me, but to Hengist, her old clan chieftain.
The shieldsmen groan when Betula starts to line them up again. I know that groan. It welcomed me in Londin, whenever I tried to train the Iutes in the wealh ways. But back then, I didn’t have Betula at my side, ordering the men around. If it was up to me, she would be the one commanding the entire Hiréd. Though small in stature, and with her right arm cut off above the elbow — even Fastidius’s prayers could not save all of it — she is the fiercest of my warriors, and the quickest to pick up on my ideas.
I have an ambitious aim: to train this Hiréd into the finest fighting force this island has seen since the Legions; while Betula and Raven deal with most of the combat training, I bury myself in the military books I brought from Ariminum, inventing tactics and strategies. After the insight I found in Livius for the victory at Eobbasfleot, I’m eager to discover more ways in which the Ancients can inspire a modern commander.
Hengist and the other elders praise me for my diligence, but their praises ring hollow in my ears. I only do this to keep my mind occupied; to forget. I could be drowning my sorrows in ale, but I don’t want to end up like Paulinus — drunk and bitter. Hard work is all I have left.
“Can’t we just drink henbane and charge at the enemy?” asks one of the spearmen. “That always worked.”
He is a veteran from Crei, one of the oldest and most experienced warriors under my command, but also, the most annoying in his obstinacy.
“There will be no more henbane,” I tell him. “Unless we’re forced to defend our homes again. Our enemies, even our Saxon allies, don’t know our secret. I intend to keep it that way. Now if you’re finished, I —”
My voice trails off. A young girl appears over the ridge of the amphitheatre, picking up cowslip, which grows in abundance among the crumbling stones. She’s wearing a green dress, and her hair falls in long golden tresses down her shoulders. For a moment, I think I’m seeing an apparition, a wraith, come to haunt me from my past. But the girl is real. As she comes closer, I recognise her — she lives in the nearby village; I’ve seen her many times before. She bears only a passing resemblance to Rhedwyn.
It doesn’t matter. The darkness returns, and hits me like an axe blow. My arms slump. I drop the sword and raise my eyes in a daze towards the warriors. I see no point in continuing their training. I see no point in doing anything anymore.
They stare at me in confusion, awaiting further orders. Betula is the only one who knows what’s happening. She’s seen it many times before. She reaches out with her only hand to rub my shoulder.
“Maybe we should call it off for today,” she says. “You seem tired, Gesith.”
“Yes,” I muster a reply. The aching is physical, spreading from my heart to my limbs. I feel that I need to lie down — and never rise again.
A morning bell rings out a melancholy wail, stirring a family of crows into flight. They clash into a flock of seagulls coming from the sea and, for a moment, the birds battle confusedly in mid-air.
The dawn rises grey and pallid over the narrow channel and the mud cliffs of Tanet beyond it. The island is now all but empty of Iute houses, except a couple of fishing villages and a few farms where the land remained fertile enough. The Iutes had no regrets about abandoning the squalid isle and moving to the mainland as soon as they were allowed.
My new house is a far cry from my rooms at the Bull’s Head or the chambers at the Londin Praetorium. It’s a single-room wooden hut, its floor dug into a grass-covered dune overlooking the beach, with a hole in the wall for a window. Even my servants have better homes. As a Gesith, I could have ordered my warriors to build me a great Hall worthy of my title, but I see no point. Its empty space would only remind me of my loneliness. The only luxury I afford myself is a chest filled with books and scrolls from Ariminum, for my evening readings.
Were I to go outside of my sunken hut, I would see below the first of the string of new villages, spread along the old road from Rutubi to Dubris. The land here, once protected by the Litus Saxonicum fortress at Rutubi, had long been abandoned by the Cantish landlords, exposed as it was to elements and raiders; the serfs that remained, plying the sand-dusted fields and casting their nets to catch the bottom-dwelling fish of the Narrow Sea, were glad to welcome their new masters. They knew the Iutes well, and have grown to like them, despite the difference in faith; some time after Eobbasfleot, I learned that many of them manned the walls of Rutubi during the battle — and were responsible for the Cantish troops staying idle when Hengist’s men charged at the Briton army. At least, so they claimed later.
The bell rings out one last time and falls silent. From my small window I can see only the far corner of the wooden chapel, raised on the walls of the Rutubi fort by Hengist to placate those of the locals who frowned on heathens settling on their land. Betula and a few other baptised Iutes have made it their home. Once a month, an acolyte from Saint Paul’s arrives to say a prayer for the slain.
I turn to stare at the sea again. This is the worst time of day; I wake up long before dawn, from dreams of sorrow and anguish. It’s too early for anything to occupy my mind, so I just let it wander from one dark place to another. I sense the despair creeping almost physically, a tingling at the top of my nose and an itching under the eyes, and I know I’m about to weep once again. These days, I don’t even need to think about Rhedwyn; just staring at the blank, dull expanse of the hazy-grey waves is enough for tears to start flowing down my cheeks.
A half-eaten bread roll and a dried piece of cheese rest on the table, untouched since yesterday. I wash my throat and my pain with stale ale, a barrel of which stands in the corner, almost empty. At some point, a servant will come from a nearby inn to replace it. Since I have no official duties planned for today, this might be my only human interaction for the rest of the day. I’m fine with that.
Somebody knocks at the frame of the door.
“Go away,” I moan. “You’re too early.”
“My day is busier than yours, young Gesith. I don’t have much time.”
I wipe the tears and rub my eyes clear. I throw the bread and cheese out the window and wipe the crumbs off the table. I rush to open the door.
“My Hlaford Drihten,” I say, and bow, more to hide the last of the tears than out of respect. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.”
“I was on Tanet, to see the old mead hall finally being dismantled.”
I peek outside. Hengist’s pony grazes moodily on the dune grass.
“You’ve come alone? Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”
“Shouldn’t I feel safe among my Hiréd?”
“Pefen thought the same.”
“Funny you should mention him.” Hengist takes a glance inside, sniffs and winces. “Let’s go for a walk down the beach. The breeze is nice and cool at this time of day.”
“I hear you’ve been brooding again,” says the Drihten. “You let your warriors see you like this?”
My face must be red and swollen. I let the wind from the sea squeeze out the rest of my tears along with the salt of the breeze.
“I have not been neglecting my duties.”
“I never suggested you were.” He takes in a deep breath. The breeze tears at his beard, more silver now than golden. His hair is tied with a thin silver band in place of the Drihten’s diadem, and his arms jangle with silver and gold armbands. “From what I hear, the new Hiréd is already as fine a band of warriors as the old one.”
“That’s far too generous. I’ve only had a couple of years to train them, from scratch. Beadda’s men had years of war in them.”
“But they never trained in the wealh ways. Our people have never been better protected.”
Protected from whom?
“Still, I sense you’re not satisfied with me, uncle.”
Instinctively, he glances around to make sure I wasn’t heard. No man except himself, Fastidius and Wortigern know that we are related. But we are alone on this wind-swept spit of dark sand.
“I worry. It’s been three years. I can’t have my heir succumb to the darkness of the soul for so long.”
I look up, startled. “Heir?”
“Why are you surprised? You knew this day would come.”
“It’s just… It’s been two years and you’ve barely mentioned it. I thought…” I hoped.
He crouches down and takes some sand in his hand. He lets the grains fall through his fingers.
“What happened to poor Pefen got me thinking. I have been waiting for too long. I need to gather the witan soon and have them approve you as my successor.”
“I am not ready.”
He laughs. “And I’m not going anywhere yet! But should Fates decide otherwise, I would like to leave the tribe’s future in capable hands. And I can’t think of more capable hands than yours.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anyone more suitable?”
“More suitable than the Hero of Eobbasfleot? More suitable than the Hlaford of Poor Town?”
I scowl. The titles he cites come from the songs he’s ordered the scops to write about my exploits. “I never claimed to be any of those things. Beormund was the chieftain in Londin. Aelle was the one who led us to victory at Eobbasfleot.”
“And if Beormund lived, and Aelle was a Iute, perhaps I would choose them over you.”
He stands up. “But you’re right.” He wipes his hands from sand. “In your current state, you are not fit to lead anyone, much less an entire tribe. You are no longer a boy. I need you to act like the man you are. You can’t stand before the witan like this.”
And if I don’t want to…?
“I will try to keep my… brooding under control, uncle.”
“See to it that you do.” He looks me over. “Do you need me to find you a woman? Is that what this is about?”
“No, uncle. I don’t think I will need your help in this matter.”
He runs his fingers through his beard. “I’ll take your word for it.” He looks to the sky. “I’d better go back to Tanet, before the wind picks up. I will send out for the witan to gather at next Full Moon. I expect you to be back to your old self by then.”
“Yes, my Hlaford Drihten.”
He gives me an impatient glower. “I can never tell when you are jesting with me, Ash.”
“I assure you, uncle, I’m in no mood for jests.”
“You’ll need to work on that, too. People need a leader who can lift their spirits in time of need.”
It is my spirit that needs lifting, uncle… I think, but I say nothing. Instead, I force my mouth into a weak smile and nod, silently.
The last time I saw the Iutish witan gather, before the Battle of Crei Ford, it only took a couple of days for all the elders and wise men of the tribe to arrive at the meeting point. Back then, with the exception of Beadda, all members of the gathering still lived on Tanet, in the vicinity of Hengist’s old mead hall.
Now, though diminished in numbers after the war, the Iute clans are scattered all over Cantiaca, and with them, their elders; it takes weeks for the messengers to reach them all, and for them to make their slow way back to Rutubi, and that’s not even counting the representatives of the Wecta colony, far to the West, under Eadgith’s rule — if they are coming at all; their presence is not necessary — the witan’s approval of Hengist’s decision should be a mere formality.
The moot circle is drawn within the walls of the old Rutubi amphitheatre. It takes up only a fraction of the ruined arena — enough space for twenty or thirty men to shout at each other for a day or two, in between gorging themselves on mead and game, trading gossip and arranging market deals and marriages. It might be a great event in the life of the Iutes, but to me, it is just another village feast. As I observe these preparations, and compare the meagre size of the witan circle with the massive crumbling ruin around it, a doubt creeps in my mind, one which I have recently been finding difficult to push back.
Once, I was a Councillor at Wortigern’s court; one of the highest ranks one could hold in Roman Britannia, below only that of the regional Comites. Once, not that long ago, I took part in the great Council of all Bishops, as equal with the mightiest and noblest of this country. As the sole heir of Master Pascent’s fortune — most of which I had to give up when I joined Hengist’s court — I would have been richer than all the Iutes in Cantiaca combined, including Hengist himself. And had the Fates been kinder to me, and to all of Britannia, I would maybe have even succeeded Wortigern as the Dux. Sometimes, in rare bouts of feeling good about myself, I imagine I could have brought peace between the Britons and the barbarians, not through the fear of war, but through mutual respect and cooperation… But these are mere dreams. Nothing is left of my old life, except a handful of golden solids in my chest and a few influential friends in Londin.
