“May the gods of the Iutes and the wealas bless this meeting, and this mead hall,” Hengist declares. “Friends, enjoy this feast, for it’s the last one inside these walls. Tomorrow, I will have it dismantled, and not rebuilt again until we’re all safely settled in the new land.”
There’s an uneasy silence as the words echo throughout the hall. Hengist looks at us in confusion. “Did I say it wrong?” he asks. “Sometimes my tongue still mangles your words, even after all these years.”
“Your words are correct, chieftain,” says the Old Squareface, “it is your haste that is troubling us.”
“Surely, we’ve all dawdled long enough.”
“That may be; however, we are not yet ready to accept all of your people into our midst. Perhaps I should’ve mentioned it sooner. We were thinking of allowing a small settlement at first, twenty families or so, as a trial of sorts…”
“A trial?” Hengist bangs the horn on the table. The glass chips, the mead spills. “A trial?”
I’m fascinated by this man. He is as different from his taciturn brother as I am from Fastidius. As quick to rejoice as he is to anger, he does not mince his words nor does he gladly suffer when others do so. It’s a refreshing change from the sycophantic courtiers and crafty diplomats among whom I’ve been spending my recent days.
“Have you not seen what’s happening outside?” he booms. His accent slips into a rough version of the Vulgar Tongue, interspersed with Iutish words. “My people have been reduced to starving almsmen. I can’t sleep for the weeping of hungry bearns and wailing of their desperate mothers. Every day we delay, we risk a famine — or worse, a plague.” His face has turned red. “And you tell me you can only spare land for twaintig families?”
As the quarrel escalates, a couple of tough-looking Iute brutes flank their chieftain’s throne, in expectation of violence. But the delegates are only good at shouting, and now they’re shouting at each other, ignoring Hengist’s growing fury. Some support Londin’s proposition, others think it doesn’t go far enough, while others still are opposed to giving the Iutes any land whatsoever, especially in the face of Hengist’s “barbaric” outburst.
I grow tired of this. I see a clear way to resolve the stand-off, one to which the courtiers, too focused on the content of their purses and local power plays, are blind. None of them understand honour the way the Iutes, and all Saxons, do. To them, the offer is as fair as it gets, maybe even too fair. They are just pagans, after all, deserving no Christian’s mercy… I stand up and try to speak, but nobody takes notice of me, not even Hengist. I draw my seax and thrust it into the table before me.
“The trial was… It was my Master’s personal request,” I start, my voice ringing out in the heavy silence. The Old Squareface stares at me, uncertain yet whether to feel relieved or annoyed at my interruption.
“How so?” asks Hengist. He grows gentle in an instant when he speaks to me.
“He asked to be the first to welcome the Iutes on his land. But we could only accommodate twenty families at the villa.”
“Is this true?” Hengist asks the other delegates. “Why didn’t any of you say something about this earlier?”
None dare speak, but the Old Squareface turns to me and nods, encouragingly. My mind races, as I’m struggling to find an explanation.
“Dux Wortigern granted this request out of the friendship and respect he felt for Master Pascent,” I say at last, “but we felt it would bring you dishonour if you knew your men were bargained about like this, as if they were livestock. Thus, we came up with the ruse of a trial.”
Hengist squints, then laughs. “Dishonour? I can think of no greater honour than fulfilling the last request of your Master. Very well! We shall do this trial of yours first. And to make sure we pass it, I shall send only my best men. Call for Beadda!” He bellows at one of the brutes. “Gesith Beadda is the commander of my Hiréd,” he explains to the table, though few know what it means. He ponders a translation. “My… household guards. I trust no one better than them to prove our worth as your allies.”
The faces around the table lighten up in relief. Hengist raises the horn again and this time, not a drop of mead is spilled as the hall trembles with the booming cry of was hael!
The feast — and further, more detailed negotiations — last until dark. When the night falls, Hengist invites us outside, where a great bonfire of turf and what driftwood the Iutes could gather is lit in our honour. This celebration is more for the benefit of Hengist’s own people than ours, to take their attention away from their everyday strife. More animals are slaughtered and brought to roast — goats this time, rather than lambs, the stench of their meat bringing tears to my eyes. Seaweed bread and some wild tubers are added for variety, but they do little to add to the flavour. There are dancers and jugglers, and then a bearded man climbs onto a flat boulder to recite a long epic poem, entirely in the Iutish tongue, a tale of some battle or siege in the land of Frisians, in which Hengist himself took part before sailing to Tanet. This, at last, bores the Briton delegates to the point of them making their excuses and leaving.
Hengist gazes after them in silence, his until now merry and mellow face turned grim. Once the last of the emissaries bows and departs for the monastery, he sends a servant to call me to his side.
“I know what you did back there,” he says. The shadows cast by the bonfire turn his eyes almost black, gleaming like onyx. The mead, of which he must have drunk barrels, seems to have no effect on his cunning. “You have my gratitude.”
“My lord?”
“There was never any request from your Master, was there? They wanted to humiliate me from the start. Twenty families! It’s a drop in the sea. If I agreed to that trial without protest, the witan would elect a new chieftain by tomorrow. Your intervention allowed us all to keep our honour intact.”
We speak in Iutish, and I need to ask him to repeat some of what he just said before answering.
“I just don’t understand why they won’t let you all leave this place. There’s plenty of empty land out there. I’ve seen it myself.”
He stares into the dancing flame.
“There are some who simply hate us for what we are. Because we’re not Christians. Because we were never Romans. Because we live underground. Because we look different, speak different. They call us animals, insects, barbarians…”
“Wortimer,” I guess.
“He’s not alone. Comes Worangon would gladly drown us all in the sea from which we came. He told me this when we first met. But most of them are just afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“The wealas know their time is passing. We may not live in stone houses and eat from silver plates, but we are vigorous and numerous; our women bear more children, our men are more eager to plough and fight. They are hiding from the world behind the walls of their cities, while we brave the wild seas to get here. They fear that if they let us in, we would soon take this land over.”
“And would you?”
He turns the glass horn in his hand. “This horn is based on a pattern devised by our people, but was made in Rome. It was a gift to my grandfather from a passing merchant, an heirloom of my household. It might be a hundred years old, maybe more — and still, today, none of my craftsmen can figure out how to create something this precious and intricate.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means we need the wealas as much as they need us. We could work together. We should work together. Not just as mercenaries, like the Saxons, but as neighbours, as families… Not to replace you — but to help you, and thrive alongside you.” He shakes his head and lays his hand on my shoulder. “Catigern understood this. As did your Master, Pascent.”
The recitation comes to an end. Before I have time to contemplate Hengist’s words, he stands up and claps twice. A hush falls on the gathered crowd.
“Speaking of families,” Hengist says. The crowd parts and, as the old poet steps down from the boulder, a young girl tak
es his place. She wears a white veil bound with a thin golden chain and a tight-fitting gown of green linen. She’s carrying a long six-string lyre of ash wood, decorated with bronze rivets. Her hair flows like gold down her back, tied in twin braids; just like the hair of the woman in my memories, the one who held on to me in the storm. The braids alone are enough to make me stare at her in stunned amazement. But then she sits down, adjusts the strings of her lyre, and moves the veil from her face to look at her audience.
I have never seen a more beautiful girl in all my life.
She seems a couple of years younger than me, her face still rounded on the edges like that of a child. Her eyes, even in the dark of the night, shine like twin blue stars. Her nose, straight and small, sits perfectly at the junction of finely drawn cheekbones. Tiny scars and blemishes on her skin only serve to emphasise the flawlessness of her features. Her long, slender fingers dance on the strings, as her ruby-red lips open into a song, a sad, weeping lament.
“My niece, Rhedwyn,” whispers Hengist, proudly.
“Niece?” I say, transfixed at the girl. “You mean Horsa’s daughter?”
“Eobba’s. One of the few who survived from that ship. Now that Horsa’s dead, she’s the closest family I have.”
“Your wife…?”
“A flux took her, not long after our landing, along with our little son. The whale-road was not the only cause of our woes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. We’ve grown stronger since then.” He pauses. “I like this part.”
The song slows down and rises in tone. Rhedwyn closes her eyes. I see nothing but her lips.
The night-shadow darkens,
Snow falls from the north;
Frost hardens the ground,
Hail falls on the earth,
The coldest grain.
I know now what Paulinus meant, all those years ago. What I felt for Eadgith, and all those other girls, was not love — it was just lust. It could never compare to what I feel at this moment. This is love. This is pure, this is coming straight from my heart, not from my loins. I do not wish to lie with her — I just want to be near her forever, hear her crystal voice, gaze into her star-like eyes. My hands tremble. My mouth is dry. My tongue is bound.
“What do you think? Will she make a good emissary?”
“Emissary, lord?”
“I want to send her to Londin soon. To serve at Wortigern’s court, to learn the wealas ways.”
“I think… it’s a marvellous idea.”
It’s more than that — it’s a miracle. To have her so close — in Londin, rather than on this distant muddy island… I could not dream of anything more.
The song ends. Rhedwyn rises with the grace of an angel, smiles and vanishes into the shadows. The night darkens as if a light brighter than the bonfire was extinguished with her disappearance.
Hengist pats my shoulder and hands me a horn filled with mead.
“Drink, Ash. Be merry. Be a Iute. For us, the night is just beginning.”
I down the horn and let out a deep belch. Hengist and the others laugh. They pour me another portion, then another. I feel dizzy and hot, and for a moment, I manage to forget about Rhedwyn’s calm, cool beauty. Hengist waves at a group of giggling girls staring at us from the other side of the glade. “Hey, come over here! Has either of you lain with a wealh?”
“He’s no wealh!” answers the tallest and fairest of them, laughing. “He looks just like us, only cleaner and fatter!”
“Good enough for me,” says another, a short, dark-haired girl with freckled cheeks. She crosses the glade. “I’d love to lie with someone who doesn’t smell of goats for a change!”
The men laugh again, but there’s embarrassment in their laughter. Hengist slaps my back. “Well done, son. Wynflaed’s hard to please.”
The girl grabs my hand and puts it on her small, pert breasts. With her other hand, she checks on the bulge that grows between my legs in an instant. She smacks her lips. “This will do,” she says, and drags me away from the crowd, to another explosion of bawdry laughter.
She leads me to a narrow pebble beach at the foot of the chalk-white cliffs, lapped by the cold waters of the great sea; under the bright stars, the girl called Wynflaed rides me all night. By the time the blood-red sun rises over the mud-green waters, I can barely stand. She laughs, kisses me one last time, and runs off into the mud huts and dug-outs.
PART 3: 443 AD
CHAPTER XV
THE LAY OF VATTO
The wild vine grows over the gate of the villa, obscuring the first two letters of the cracking sign, leaving only the letters “IMINVM” readable. I stop under the gateway and look up, letting the raindrops wash my face from the grit of the long journey, until my pony whinnies despondently.
No one is coming out to greet me, except an old guard at the gate, who nods me through. The villa is quiet, desolate, feels almost abandoned. I tell my men to seek out some food and shelter in the outbuildings, while I head for the domus. Yes, I have servants now. Two slaves given to me by Dux Wortimer: one a Frank, the other a Pict from the far North. The first thing I did was to free them, but I cannot afford to pay them wages for my service, so their life with me is not much different to that of an actual slave.
There is nobody in the domus, either. Lady Adelheid, unable to stand living alone, decided not long ago to cross the sea and depart to Frankia, where some of her family still dwell. But I’m surprised not to see Paulinus, or any of his servants. I push the door — it is unlocked. A musty smell of an old attic strikes my nose.
By now, my two men have caused enough stir in the villa to wake some of the servants up. One of them runs up to me from the direction of the gardener’s hut, all bent in apologetic bows, until he sees my face.
“Master Ash? Is that you?”
“Vatto! Please, I’m no Master. Just Ash, as always.”
We pat each other on our backs. He stinks of soil and manure.
“Helping in the gardens as always, I see,” I say. “Where is everyone else?”
“Here and there,” he replies, nodding in either direction. “They’re coming. We didn’t expect any guests.”
“Paulinus didn’t tell you?”
He grimaces. Paulinus is rarely seen at Ariminum these days, he tells me. As the most senior of Master Pascent’s surviving friends and servants, he is supposed to govern the property in Fastidius’s name — but the construction of the new project south of the river has become his main interest in recent months. He’s even moved his house to the other side of the Loudborne, just to be closer to the building site. The servants take food and other necessities from the villa over to him as needed.
I ask Vatto to show me what’s changed around the villa. I haven’t been here for over a year, busy with my new duties at Wortigern’s court.
He takes me to the bath house first. It’s closed permanently now. The roof has fallen in, the walls of the triclinium have crumbled. There is not even a trace of the mud hut where I was raised and where the old woman lived out her last years in unhappy, grumbling solitude.
We pass the huts where the craftsmen live, on the western edge of the property. I notice they are emptier than they used to be.
“Some of us have moved across the river,” he says.
“With Father Paulinus?”
“Not… exactly.”
Vatto peers inside one of the huts and calls for Map. The boy comes out, wiping his hands in a rag. I notice he’s missing a finger.
“Still a carpenter’s apprentice?” I ask, after we exchange cordial greetings.
“Not long now. My father’s fingers have grown too twisted with damp. Soon I will inherit the shop.”
“There can’t be much work left on the property,” I say, looking towards the domus. Many of the outbuildings around us are in as much disrepair as the bath house.
“People come from all over for our wares. Saffron Valley, even Magnuwic, downriver. They say it�
��s better than what they can get from the Iutes.”
This is the first time anyone here has mentioned the Iute settlement on the other side of the Loudborne. I’m intrigued to hear it’s already trading with the surrounding villages, even if, as Map claims, the locals treat their goods with suspicion.
“Who else is left of the old band?” I ask Vatto as we head back to the domus.
“Sulio still works in the kitchens. Banna’s grown up into a big fighter, and went to Londin to wrestle for money.”
“Little Waerla was caught stealing pigs,” adds Map with an embarrassed wince, “and ran away to Andreda before Paulinus could punish him.”
“What about Gleva?”
“He got married — to Acha, the milk maid! They moved to Magnuwic. Haven’t heard from them since.”
We reach the door of the house. I smell soup, so Sulio and the other cooks must have started preparing a welcome meal for me. I invite Vatto and Map to dine with me, but they excuse themselves.
“I’d have to wash,” Vatto says, wiping a bit of dirt and grease from his clothes. “Besides, you’ll be having the same thing as us for the cena. The feasts you remember are no more.”
Vatto is wrong. The feasts are still being thrown around these parts, just not on the grounds of the villa.
Even before we cross the Loudborne, I can tell Beadda’s Hiréd, as the Iutes call their elite warriors, have done well for themselves. Smoke oozes low over the damp meadow, thick with the oily scent of roasting meat and burning herbs. As I sniff out the various aromas in the smoke, I’m reminded of that other feast, more than a year ago, on the edge of a muddy, chalk-bound island, where all we had to eat was goat and laver bread. There will be no goats or seaweed served today, only mutton, freshly baked bread and — if I’m not mistaken — wild pigs.
The Iute village spreads south of the river, along the outskirts of the old graveyard. It’s a far cry from the squalor of the Tanet camps. The houses here have solid, timber walls, groaning under thick, fresh thatch. There are still some dug-outs on the edge of the village, but they appear to be used for storage, rather than accommodation. The main path leads through a wheat field, golden-green in anticipation of the first harvest, then crosses the centre of the settlement, culminating at the round-walled mead hall, a smaller, neater counterpart to the one where Hengist once welcomed us. The entire place is bright with the barking of dogs and laughter of children, though one sound breaks through it all from outside — a rhythmical ringing of hammers and chisels at the building site in the middle of the old graveyard.
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