“Do you think I will give way to such paltry threats?” she retorted curtly, barely glancing at the bloodied trophies. “What are a few dead to me?” Did Cerdic think her so feeble-minded? So soft-bellied? She, Winifred, who had murdered for her own gain; Winifred, who had from childhood, schemed and bartered and fought to achieve her wealth, her position. Wealth and position that she fully intended to keep. Threaten her? Had she, then, bred a fool?
Cerdic stood, the axe in his hand. “Your land is to be legally, undisputedly mine. On that land, my people can settle and thrive without threat or intimidation. More will then come to join us, with the swing of the seasons, they will come. And then I will found my own kingdom. Mine, Mother, not yours, not my father’s; mine. I will become Bretwalda of the English, the founder of a dynasty, the… ”
The absurdity! Winifred laughed, head back, hands on hips, mouth open, laughed. “You? Do all that for yourself? You could not even sire your own son – your father had to do it for you!”
Cerdic’s lip lifted into a snarl. The axe was in his hand, he lifted it, swung, brought it down, his breath bellowing from between his enraged, clenched teeth with the exhalation of effort. Blood, bone, sinew spewed among the shards of green glass and splintered wood.
She had not screamed or moved, so quickly had he killed her.
Oslac scratched, unconcerned, under his armpit, the drip of blood from the two heads adding to the mess on the floor as he raised his arm. He had understood not a word of what had been said, for they had spoken in Latin, and he knew only the English tongue.
He sniffed. “Bury her, do we?” he asked, “with the others, to stop their spirits walking?”
Cerdic wiped his hand beneath his nose, licked his lips. He was shaking. Gods, he thought, what have I done? “Aye, put them with their severed heads between their legs to bind them to the darkness of the earth.”
He left the room, went to where it was dark and private and brought up the contents of his stomach, his belly heaving and twisting. Then sat, his back against a wall, letting the cold of the night dry the sweat that was on his skin, the quiet calm his shaking. After a while the thought came that he had wanted his mother’s land, and now, by right of inheritance, he had it.
In control of his guts and his thinking, Cerdic rejoined his men who, if they had noticed anything, said not a word. There was one last thing to do, now he had obtained what he had come for. Cerdic had recognised him when they had battered down the wooden gates of this place. The priest had been one of the first to run forward, protesting, demanding that the Saxons leave. He rapped orders, watched as they slowly butchered the man, that unfortunate priest. They would toss the bloodied bits into a shallow pit, not like the others, no burial grave for this one who would never again be entering a whorehouse, or running to tell tales to a mother about a boy eager to sample his first taste of offered delights. Ah, vengeance had its own reward, and Cerdic found it to be a good way to settle a heaving stomach and a shrieking conscience.
Their business done, Cerdic and his small band of Saxons left, weighted with treasures and trinkets, carousing their success. Three words, remembered from those tedious days of childhood tutoring thrumming in Cerdic’s mind as they marched home, southward. Veni; vidi; vici.
I came; saw; conquered.
The guilt had already passed, replaced with the smell of undominated freedom.
April 476
III
With men working together as a unit, a team, Cerdic’s Hall took shape. It was the first permanent building to be erected, for the Mead Hall was more than a prestigious place of residence for the head man. It was a meeting hall for Council, where judgements of law would be made or collective decisions discussed and argued over, be it for planning the next harvest or the next war; a workplace, where women would cook, weave and sew, where men mended harness, sharpened weapons, fashioned a new spear. A feasting hall, a sleeping place: the Mead Hall, the heart, the centre, of a community. Although as yet this embryonic settlement of the West Saxons was not a community. They were fledglings, grubbing an existence under tents, foraging for food, living hand-to-mouth, day to day, but not for much longer. Cerdic’s people were here to stay, and the raising of the Hall was a statement of their intransigent intention.
The oval palisade fence had been the first essential construction. Defence and confinement, to keep domestic animals in, the undesirable – human or animal – out. Built of oak, a wood that smouldered rather than blazed, rising higher than two men standing one atop the other, and with the width of two, spread handspans, it encompassed an enclosure of several acres that would, eventually, be a permanent home to the founders of Cerdic’s kingdom.
With that completed, the men felled yet more timber for the Hall. Oak again, for the upright supports, door-frames, roof rafters, wall-plating and the crafting of the great, curved pairs of timber crucks needed to support the weight of the roof. The plank floor was to be suspended, the height of a man above ground level; the space underneath to take the foundations for the weight-bearing uprights, and to keep the living quarters warm and dry. The dark cellar would eventually be used for storage, reached by a low entrance set modestly beside the steps leading upward to an imposing, intricately carved, doorway. Cerdic’s Mead Hall was to be a magnificent building. Roofed with timber shingles, not thatch, half as wide and long again as the one he had inherited from Leofric – oh, his was to be a chieftain’s Hall, worthy of mention in song!
And others would come with the passing of the seasons, see it, admire its crafting, its significance of power. Men would come, bring their wives and children, offer their shields and spears into Cerdic’s service in exchange for the right to build their own dwelling within the protective hand of Cerdic’s authority.
The foundations were well laid, the massive uprights in position. The door-frames fitted, skeletal openings. Today, the first of the roof-beams were to be hoisted, slotted into the half-lap joints. The weather had been kind, dry, but not hot. If it lasted until the shingles had been laid… Ah, would the gods be that generous?
Cerdic stood, fists resting on his broad waist, legs spread, head back, eyes squinting into the light, as the first of the heavy beams was pulled upward, the ropes creaking from the suspended weight, men’s muscles straining. The beam was swung around, manhandled, eased forward, slotted with deceptive ease neatly into the waiting joint; at the far end, another beam, with another team of men. They were working high off the ground, the height of five tall men. The crossed ends of the exposed upright supports to the fore and aft of the apexed roof would be carved and decorated, painted with the grotesque faces of house-place spirits to ward away the forces of mischief and evil. Glad Cerdic was, that he need not clamber about up there! Once, he had groped his way up the mast of one of his ships. He had been younger then, no more than ten and six years, but still the dizzying height had spun his brains, churned his stomach. He had left the sorting of the square sails to the experienced sailors after that. And the building of his Hall roof to the carpenters.
Someone approached from behind, his shadow passing across Cerdic’s feet, stood beside his lord. Belched, wiped his mouth with his tunic sleeve, pork grease dribbling down his chin, the hunk of meat, well-chewed, between his black-nailed fingers.
“Going well,” Oslac observed, indicating the busy industry. “Be settled in soon, eh?”
Cerdic made no answer. Oslac was a good soldier, reliable, strong armed, sure-aimed, though his manners left much to be desired. He also stank of rancid wine, stale sweat and piddled urine – but then, most of them did.
“How long do you reckon then? Before we move on?” Oslac spoke through a mouthful of pork, mouth open, teeth masticating, oblivious of Cerdic’s responding frown.
“Move on?” Cerdic asked, his tone severe. “I do not intend to move on.”
Swallowing the chewed meat, Oslac picked at a shred stuck behind his gum. “We’re not going to stay here forever, are we? Stuck on the edge of these mar
shes with all that land out there ripe for the taking.” He threw the bone away, northward, to where, beyond the palisade fence, the sea-marshes gave way to the outskirts of woodland – laying further back now that so many trees had been felled, the new-cut stumps stark against the foot-trampled undergrowth.
“Until I am ready to expand. We stay here, on my own-held, undisputed ground.”
“But I thought we were here to fight!” Oslac’s voice could whine, petulant, like an irritating child. “That’s what I came for. To kill British.”
“And that is what we shall do,” Cerdic’s acerbic tone was lost on Oslac, who failed to notice the lift to his nostrils, the narrowing of eyes, warning signs. “When we are secure here, when we have ploughed, sown and harvested our fields, stored our barns to the roof-beams with grain, have fattened cattle, milk-yielding goats. When the traders’ ships come first to our harbour, not others along the coast. When the women have borne us the next generation of warriors. Then, when we have the power of permanence behind us, then we will fight.” Stability meant survival. Attack now, and the Pendragon would have all the excuse he needed to sweep in from the west and wipe them out, while they were vulnerable and exposed.
Winifred’s death had been a mistake, Cerdic had realised that on the swaggering march back from Venta. He had done it in a rage of temper, it had not been intentional, not been planned – but she had pushed him once too often, the bitch. And it had been so easy to lift that axe and…
For now, he must keep his head down, remain quiet, then he would be forgotten, ignored as of no consequence. Only a few of the British were blustering their protest at Winifred’s death, but Cerdic had taken steps to repair the damage done in that fit of temper – and he had more or less succeeded. His bile had risen at having to write so placatingly to his father, to petition his innocence, pleading Winifred had forced his hand. And the bribing of so many of the British Council had cost him dear, but then, the ploy had worked, for his father seemed content to let things ride.
Although you never knew with Arthur quite what he was thinking.
“There’s enough of us,” Oslac said, piqued. “We could make a fight of things whenever we wanted. And why has the Pendragon not come to us? Challenged us?” He spat pork-stained saliva to the grass. “They say, so I’ve heard, he hasn’t the stomach for battle any more.”
“They are fart-arsed fools, then,” Cerdic retorted as he walked away, only the white of his clenched knuckles betraying the rage burning inside him. The idleness of gossip! Arthur was afraid of nothing, so Winifred had maintained. Hah! Boasted, bragged! How often had she flagrantly compared him with Arthur? Your father is not afraid of the dark, of thunder, of the pain of a tooth that needed pulling. But he would learn to be afraid! When he was ready, Cerdic would show him there was something to be feared – the destruction his son would unleash. The death he would bring.
“He’s lost his balls,” Oslac muttered, persistent. “He’d have come otherwise, after you murdered your own mother.” Possibly it was not meant to be heard, but it came out louder than intended.
Cerdic’s fists clenched, his teeth clamped together. He would have slain Oslac then, at that moment, except it would have tainted the building of his Hall, the cold spilling of blood as the beams were raised.
No one crossed Cerdic. No one doubted his word, contradicted his planning, told him what to do and when or how. Mathild had discovered that, and his mother. No one openly mentioned murder. He took several deep breaths, calmed himself. They would need to make sacrifice to ensure luck and fortune. Blood must be sprinkled over the lintel, hearth and threshold of the Hall, in the name of Woden.
Easy enough to arrange; the chosen one to be Oslac.
May 476
IV
The ride north. Tiring, rain-sodden, aggravatingly slow. The mud thick and cloying, the horses bad-tempered and unwilling in the face of continuous, needle-tipped, rain-squalled wind. And all for nothing!
Ambrosius Aurelianus sat hunched, cold and aching before the feeble heat of a sulky brazier, nursing a bowl of venison broth between his chapped, stiff hands. He dipped the wooden spoon into the liquid, brought out a chunk of meat. At least this was hot! It tasted good, too, the meat tender, root vegetables not soft or mushy, subtly flavoured with herbs. He ate hungrily, enjoying the meal.
The Hall was busy with many people indoors on such a foul afternoon, yet the building was quiet. Not silent, for the bustle of everyday movement created sound: footsteps coming and going across the timber flooring; the clatter of cooking pots and utensils; the growl and snarl of squabbling dogs, the slap of leather as one man cut and shaped the straps he would need to fashion a new bridle. A hen sat brooding, crooning to herself, unmolested, in a dark, straw-piled corner – though the dogs would find any eggs soon enough. The women talked as they worked at the two looms, their voices muted, dulled into a respectful murmur, but they had all, everyone in that Hall, stopped, fallen silent, looked up from whatever busied their hands, as Ambrosius had entered, wet and chilled. And he had known, as he walked into that dismal silence, an hour past, he was too late. Caw, a man devoted to his God, who had once been a king in the north, his friend and kinsman, Caw was dead. The illness had taken him to the Holy Kingdom before his request, uttered on dry, cracked, pain-tensioned lips could be fulfilled. “Bring Ambrosius to me. I would make confession to Ambrosius.”
“Why me?” Ambrosius had asked himself on that journey north, to the Gwynedd stronghold that Lord Caw had made his own, for himself and his great, many-numbered family. Why me? Because they had known one another in the innocent time of childhood? Because Ambrosius’s wife had been Caw’s favourite sister? Because and because… Who could unravel the many possible answers to an obscure riddle? Caw had asked, Ambrosius had come. Too late. Caw had died two days previous.
A girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed – as many of them from north beyond the Wall were – came a second time before him, offering to top his bowl with fresh broth, the harsh, red bruising of tears still swelling her eyes. She was Cywyllog, Caw’s youngest surviving daughter. Ten and seven years of age, quiet-voiced, neat, precise movements that gave an air of calm, rooted, efficiency. She was dressed plain in dark colours, muted browns and greens, her black hair bound in a single braid. No jewellery or decoration to ears, neck or arms. A few of her elder sisters carried, from their mother’s pagan influence, the blue tattooing of the north, the needle-pricked patterned markings on cheeks, forehead and arms, but not Cywyllog, for the girls born to the second and third wives were raised in their father’s Christian faith. They were married to northern men, those older girls, several had grandchildren born. Cywyllog barely remembered them, for she had come south to the sanctuary of Gwynedd with her father and mother – his second woman – in the late spring of 464. Had lived here since, within the seclusion of Caer Rhuthun’s palisaded walls, mostly in peace. Save for that one short time, when the eldest of her brothers had come seeking sanctuary.
Caw had produced a large family. Daughters, a sprinkling of sons; some were married and settled, many, after coming south, had entered into the service of the Church; as many were dead. The first-born had been male, as was the last. Cywyllog had nurtured a deep, personal, affection for them both – although the one was dead, murdered, she insisted, ten years past, and the other was merely three years of age.
Ambrosius accepted the second helping of broth with gratitude, invited her to sit a while, to talk. She shook her head. There was much to do, much to arrange. Lord Enniaun was soon expected, she explained, they must make ready to receive their honoured benefactor. With a smile that brought no light or sunshine to her face, she whisked away. Ambrosius felt cheered. It would be good to meet with Enniaun, Lord of Gwynedd. Happen the journey north was not wasted, after all.
As he spooned the broth, he glanced around. Caw’s Hall was small, frugally furnished, parsimonious in comparison to a lord’s usual necessary splendour. But then, Caw had been a dispossessed king. His lan
d, his title, wealth – some had even whispered among themselves, his manhood – had been forcibly taken from him by the stronger eldest son, Hueil. That last had proven malicious gossip of course, but for the rest…
There were not many younger people within the Hall; most, the majority, a tired, older generation. A few children had trotted, shoulders hunched against the discomfort of drizzling rain, beside the horses when Ambrosius and his escort had made way through the open gates, up through the mud-slush into the stronghold. It was not a place of the young, this, for the younger men had not ridden southward with their ousted lord, opting for the better excitement of the prospect of war against Arthur with Hueil. Caw had made the same mistake as Ambrosius. It was all very well putting your faith firm and solid into the goodness of God – but a devout monk could not be a successful king.
Hueil. Ambrosius set his empty bowl topside-down on the floor, a tradition to show he had finished, enjoyed his meal, and practical, to dissuade the wretched dogs from scrambling for it. Hueil.
A young man of such potential promise. Where – when -had it all gone awry? Ah, with the evil of pagan mischief and the lure of a woman! He would have been ten and four when his mother had died, the woman who had followed the heathen ways of the Priestess. With her pagan influence banished, Caw had turned his mild interest into whole-hearted Christian faith. For a while the boy followed, eager to imitate his earthly lord and father. But Caw’s devotion was perhaps too rigid, too blind to the path of greed, and Hueil was a young man who had the strength and passion of the warrior in him.
At twenty years of age, he had left Alclud in the north and ridden south and south, to join with Arthur the Pendragon, to fight with, and under, him.
But Caw would not fight for his own land, had trusted too deeply that God would triumph over the sea-raiders who came in more numbers every spring to steal his land, his cattle, his women. And Hueil, turning against Arthur, had been lured by the witch-woman, Morgause, to the taking of his father’s kingdom by force. Ambrosius leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees, chin propped on his clasped hands. The war that followed had been bloody and bitter. Many men had died, men from beyond the Wall and from the south. Arthur’s son, Llacheu, among them. He sighed, long and slow.
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