by Hume, M. K.
‘You wouldn’t dare to touch me, you Frank bastard, for I’m still the King of the Dene. My warriors will have your head.’
‘Are you speaking of the warriors you left without food when they were locked in their barracks? Or perhaps you are speaking of the warriors lying around you on the floor in their piss, shit and vomit? Perhaps you expect your jarls who are guarding your borders to save you. I’ll warrant they’re standing on the dykes that separate them from the Saxon lands and thanking their gods that you’re far, far away from them.’
Arthur halted his diatribe to draw breath and to stare with loathing at this man who had caused so much death and heartache among the Dene people.
‘You’ll die soon in your own piss and shit,’ Arthur continued mercilessly. ‘I don’t give a fuck how you feel except to pray devoutly that you suffer every moment until death takes you. I want you to die slowly for the death of my friend, Eamonn; for the Dene warriors of Skania who starved to death at the Vagus River; for the children who were sold into the brothels of the east; for the many innocents who died at Lake Wener and, finally, for those warriors who perished in the marshes beyond the border lands, the Daneverke whom the Hundings killed before we brought their depredations to a halt. Ultimately, your suffering is because of the crimes you inflicted on Hrolf Kraki and Aednetta Fridasdottar. As the ancients once swore, the gods should never be mocked – and now you must pay the price.’
Then Arthur turned to face Germanus.
‘Instruct the able to remove the warriors and women who are still alive. Have them placed somewhere central where we can assess their chances of survival. On pain of incurring my severe displeasure, they are not to touch King Frodhi on his throne. Poison is dripping from that man, and he can remain there until he passes into eternity. Warn the servants too that they must not come within spitting distance of this creature. It’s best that he dies alone and untouched . . . and I now need some fresh air before I vomit again.’
Arthur hurried out into the clean air. The sun was sliding behind a bank of clouds, as if nature itself might be shrinking from the visions of festering flesh. Certainly, Grendel and his mother would be laughing beyond the shades at the justice that had been dealt out to their avowed enemies.
Then the sun disappeared and only the sound of high-pitched laughter disturbed the crows nesting in the highest branches of the pine trees. Even the scavengers of the night scorned to enter the dark maw of Heorot; evil dwelled in this place, and only cleansing fire could erase the old wickedness from the Limfjord.
The night was dark and very still.
CHAPTER XVII
A Foothold
Nemo bonus Britto est.
(No good man is a Briton.)
Decius Magnus Ausonius, Epigrams
The long, grey waves stretched ahead of the flotilla that followed the sail with the red dragon emblazoned on its vast surface. Winter was coming and the slate-coloured British skies were streaked through with charcoal, dove-grey and silver, while the sea’s hues shaded to midnight-black in places. For the first time on this journey, gulls were screaming for scraps to squabble over as the ships approached their disembarkation point.
‘We can’t be very far from land now,’ Arthur said to Ingrid who was standing beside him. The wind lifted her white-gold braid until it was a banner streaming behind her. Several men from the crew were gazing lustfully at her matronly body.
Arthur knew that such proximity would be a trial for any man with red blood in his veins, forced to live cheek by jowl with Ingrid and Sigrid for weeks on end.
‘Is there any sight of land, Snorri?’ Arthur called to his helmsman who was acting as lookout as well. From his position high in the stern, Snorri had been scanning the distant horizon.
‘Aye, master, can you see the grey line in the distance? It’s landfall at last!’
Arthur gazed over the prow, forced to squint against the glare thrown up from the sea and the intermittent sunlight. But then he recognised it, a thin line of charcoal with an irregular edge.
‘Aye, it’s surely Britannia . . .’ Only Ingrid heard; she began to reach out to touch his stiffening shoulder but then thought better of it. Her master’s profile was showing the stiff, unrelenting willpower that had brought this fleet into dangerous and alien waters to a land that was beyond her understanding.
‘The first snows will be here soon and we must have palisades and shelters built before then. We must also ensure the fields are ploughed before the earth turns to iron and next year’s crops must be planted. Time is marching on and it will drag us in its wake if we aren’t ready.’
Snorri nodded his understanding as Sea Wife ploughed on with a fresh breeze filling her enormous sail.
A week had passed quickly at Heorot as Arthur forced some degree of order out of the chaos caused by Justinian’s Disease. Drunk and raving, Frodhi sat on his throne for three days as the strength departed from his legs and all reason fled from his brain. When he breathed his last, none of the warriors, servants or villagers would approach the swollen and menacing corpse, either for silver or any other reward. Germanus, Lorcan and two other survivors eventually took on the distasteful task so that Frodhi’s remains could be burned without ceremony, and the throne could be cleansed for the new king, another of Stormbringer’s cousins.
Meanwhile, the land was bereft; for now, the fields would lie fallow and cottages would rot until such time as new generations of younger Dene farmers replaced those who had died.
Under Maeve’s ministrations, the number of new victims declined sharply and more patients seemed to be surviving. Clean air, nutritious food, bathing and plentiful pre-boiled fluids saved many lives, as did the care given by the women who provided the bulk of the nursing. Father Lorcan carried out lancings and amputations, using the techniques he had first learned when treating Germanus in the land of the Franks.
Maeve quickly began to organise the care of the sick warriors who had been abandoned in the barracks. She provided the upper rooms with nutritious foods, milk and clean water, and most importantly the fire pits on the floor below were kept alight.
The last survivors of Death’s Banquet, as Frodhi’s mad feast had been called by the peasants, were removed to a central downstairs room where their kinswomen could nurse them. Unfortunately, most died because of initial neglect during the early stages of the illness.
Arthur’s eyes had filled with tears when his sister had looked up at him after he called her name at the entrance to her hospice. Her hair had come down, her eyes were glowing and she was flushed with exertion after boiling a huge cauldron of rags to use as dressings. What a woman she was, a worthy queen of the Sae Dene who would become a superb mother of fighting men.
Then, as Arthur glanced up at the menacing façade of Heorot still bearing its grisly trophies, something snapped in his head.
‘Take down those fucking bones, Snorri. You can collect the gold and give it to the widows, although it’s no recompense for the loss of their kin. Then add those hideous relics to the fire to join the remains of King Frodhi; with luck, Heorot’s curse will burn as well. Afterwards use whatever labour can be found to scour that building until it’s clean – we should let the new king, Halfdan, begin his reign without the bad luck that has preyed on the Dene kings since they began to display their arrogance.’
Father Lorcan had watched as Snorri climbed a tall ladder to reach those grim bones. With a curse, he tossed the relics onto the cobbles of the forecourt where several shattered within their net of shining gold.
‘I don’t see myself as a coward, but my heart quails at the thought of even touching them,’ Germanus stated with a deep shudder.
The skull fell to the ground, cracking across the crown like a smashed egg.
‘I’ll collect the pieces, Arthur,’ Lorcan suggested. ‘I’m a man of God, so no curse laid by pagans can harm
me. Let me perform this small chore out of the love I hold for you, my friend.’
‘No, Lorcan. If any objects on this earth come from your Satan, then it’s these ancient relics. I can’t allow you to soil your hands on them.’ Arthur was adamant and Snorri, who had leaped down from the ladder, used his cloak to scoop them up.
‘I’m not afraid of a few fucking bones. Grendel can have me, if he wants to be kept from the flames,’ Snorri joked, before striding off to the funeral pyre with his unholy spoils.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, dear boy?’ Lorcan asked wistfully. ‘I’m fast becoming an old man, but I’ll try to help you in any way I can before you sail off to God-knows-where.’
The priest’s eyes were suddenly tearful. ‘How else can I show the love I have felt for you, Arthur? You’ll be leaving this wicked place soon, and we’ll not meet again in this world.’
Because his heart was breaking, Arthur took Lorcan in his arms and held the fragile old man close to his heart. ‘The best gift you can give me is to pray for me whenever I enter your thoughts, Father, for I’ll need your help during the months and years that lie ahead. I didn’t think that parting from a lifelong friend could be so hard.’
And so the bones of Grendel and his mother were consigned to the cleansing flames, but heartened as he was by Lorcan’s demonstration of love, Arthur could still smell the stink of corruption from the funerary pyre.
Gradually, the charcoal-grey land became clearer and clearer, and Arthur arrived at a decision. Although the eastern coastline of Britain was largely unfamiliar to him, he had passed through these lands years earlier, but at this particular juncture, he had no idea where he was.
‘Instruct the fleet to move to the north and wait for us off that headland over there,’ he instructed Snorri. ‘I’ll take the canoe to one of the local villages and establish our exact position.’
Snorri looked at him doubtfully.
‘I’ll be careful, Snorri. I speak Saxon and Celt, with Latin as a back-up, so I’ll discover where we are fairly quickly. Look over there! I can see smoke rising in that little bay, so I’ll head for there in the canoe and rejoin you as soon as I can.’
‘At least take Germanus with you, master, for we’ll be in all sorts of trouble if you are killed or injured.’ Snorri was looking thoroughly alarmed at this prospect, so Arthur agreed. Then he decided to take Gareth too, rather than endure the younger man’s protests. Gareth had steadfastly refused to let Arthur out of his sight in times of danger.
‘Is that better, Snorri? I’ll have two men at my back which, I admit, seems a sensible idea. You can’t come with me because you’re acting captain of Sea Wife in my absence. Take good care of her!’
Snorri grumbled and commiserated with Sigrid, who shared his concerns. But both knew that their master only listened to one voice, the one that lived deep within his brain.
Arthur, Germanus and Gareth climbed nimbly down the side of Sea Wife and into the canoe. Once they were settled into position and had readied their paddles, Arthur loosened the rope that bound them to the longboat and the three friends began the two-mile paddle to reach the shore.
As they drew closer they saw the floating detritus of a swiftly flowing river and the evidence of habitable land. A tree branch proclaimed itself to be pine, still with some of its cones attached. Arthur lifted one of the smaller offshoots out of the water for a short moment and inhaled the resinous smell, overlaid with salt. The northern climes had pines aplenty, but Arthur imagined that this one had a special smell that Britain alone could produce. Gareth agreed with him; Germanus, who understood that the aroma of these needles was the same as elsewhere in the northern lands, nevertheless sympathised with the expressions of joy on their glowing faces.
As they rounded a small headland near the mouth of the large river, Arthur saw the first signs of habitation. ‘There! We’ll seek out information at that little village to the right of the dunes where the smoke is rising. If there’s a village, there must be a larger town further upriver.’
They paddled on, almost flying across the open waters. The night was coming in rags of darkness across a setting sun as they passed by the village, because Arthur had decided to find a sheltered spot where they could hide the canoe before confronting the inhabitants.
Once on land they quickly hid the canoe in the copse of low shrubs that proliferated above the high-tide mark.
‘The villagers will consider us to be barbarians when we arrive, heavily armed, on their doorsteps, and they’ll be scared.’ Arthur suddenly realised how odd the three warriors would look to the Saxon or Celt inhabitants. ‘Well, it’s far too late for us to hide the fact that we are outlanders, so it’s probably best to simply tell them the truth of our intentions as far as possible.’
Germanus grinned sadly. ‘Now would be the perfect time for Lorcan to make one of his bad jests about the things that lie before us. Aye, but I’m sorely missing my Hibernian friend.’
‘I know how you feel,’ Arthur said. ‘It’s strange to make a journey such as this without him at our heels, talking and talking. I miss his incessant chatter.’
‘And his rotten jokes,’ Gareth added as he grasped clumps of grass to climb the dune.
‘But my friend was ageing towards the end, and he told me that he was enjoying his life at The Holding. He’d put down roots there and was happy. It’s odd, Arthur! I left a wife and two sons at home in Arden, and I set off in pursuit of you without a second thought. I hope they’ll be there when we return, because my wife is a good girl.’ Then Germanus sighed.
‘He’s happy with the choice he made,’ Arthur agreed, as he joined Gareth on the lip of the dune. ‘He sees himself now as the protector of Blaise and Maeve. He’ll teach young Sven to read and write, and he’ll do his best to ensure that a new Sae Dene king will be ready to fulfil his destiny after the death of his father. I can only hope the plague doesn’t visit The Holding.’
‘But will it?’ Gareth asked, frowning.
‘We’ll find out when we send our trading vessels back to collect the women and children and our goods and chattels. There might be other volunteers seeking a new life in other lands. Of one thing I am certain, Germanus. Many Dene men, women and children will die as a result of this scourge. In the past, Stormbringer has worried that the burgeoning population would outgrow the arable land available, but Justinian’s Disease will put an end to those fears. I suspect it will be generations before the Dene will be forced to sally forth and find new homelands.’
‘What are we doing then, Arthur? Why have four hundred Norwegians, Denes and even some Geats chosen to follow you into what seems to them to be a wilderness?’ Gareth was honestly confused.
‘Don’t be such a dolt, boy,’ Germanus reprimanded him. ‘They have a leader in whom they have confidence, and Arthur represents their best chance to obtain riches beyond their wildest dreams.’
‘I meant no offence,’ Gareth replied. Although he was a grown man now, one with a slew of female admirers and a goodly portion of gold in the hold of Sea Wife, in some respects he was still the boy of eighteen who had followed Arthur into an impossibly dangerous and foreign world with such determination.
As the sun lowered towards the horizon, the three men could see the village fires becoming brighter in the fading light as women added extra firewood to the fire pits and hung huge cauldrons over blackened iron tripods.
The autumn air was already showing the first signs of the coming winter; Arthur could smell snow in the air and recognised its presence in the colour of the distant cloudbanks. But while this northern part of Britain was cold, the sky, sea and earth were softer and gentler than the jewel-bright skies and deep snows of the Dene lands.
‘There doesn’t seem to be a public house of any description,’ Germanus noted. ‘Then again, I suppose six cottages don’t merit such luxury.’
‘They’re fishermen,’ Arthur replied shortly. ‘There’s a path leading into the interior which could pass as a road for market days and the local fairs at some larger town, but without a thoroughfare there’s no need for an inn. Be prepared, gentlemen! We’re going to cause a stir, so just follow my lead.’
The three men strode down the low hill overlooking the village as if they were newly arrived gods who had come to earth to be worshipped. Several of the women squawked and dropped their spoons and brooms before scattering with children clutching at their skirts. The fishermen dived into their huts and came out carrying primitive hoes, fishing spears or clubs, prepared to guard their homes and their families with the last of their blood.
Arthur’s gaze took in the fishing nets laid out on primitive racks to dry. Smokehouses indicated the thrift exercised in this poor village and the scant returns from their vegetable patches bore mute testimony to the quality of the soil. The day’s catch had already been cleaned, gutted and strung up through the gills on sharpened spikes of willow.
‘Is there a headman among you who can speak for your village? We mean you no harm, good sirs, but we require information from you. We are Britons who have been far away in distant lands in the north for far too long.’
Not surprisingly, the fishermen viewed the three huge warriors as a threat. They raised their makeshift weapons as menacingly as they could, although the full complement of five middle-aged men, two elderly grandfathers and four boys aged between ten and fifteen hardly presented any danger. Arthur silently congratulated them on their courage. With little to lose, they were nevertheless prepared to die to protect what was theirs.
‘I repeat to you, good sirs, that it’s not our intention to harm you or yours. Nor do we wish any harm to your village and your livelihoods. We only wish to converse with you and obtain the information we need. We will then be gone.’ The Saxon tongue, so similar to the Dene language, felt awkward and rusty on his tongue.
The headman lowered his weapon a fraction.