by Hume, M. K.
‘I don’t see anything, Snorri. What are you talking about?’
‘Look closer, master, in the bottom of the stream!’
Arthur strode into the streamlet, surprised to discover that it came to mid-calf. It certainly wasn’t deep, but its clarity was deceptive. The mosses that waved idly on the bottom were viridian and as soft as velvet in the nest of onyx, chalcedony, agate and quartz pebbles, all of which had been smoothed by the waters until they glowed like gems.
Within the nest of pebbles, something white and unexpected waved at him. A child’s body lay in the bottom of the stream; tendons were still holding the delicate, articulated bones of the hand together. Like a flower carved from ivory, the fingers opened and closed in a strange and lovely parody of a flexing movement, as if a babe was learning the magic of his own fingers.
Alarmed, Arthur stepped back abruptly, stirring the silt between the stones so that the hand disappeared. Looking up, he saw the scar on the earth caused by the erosion of a shallow grave. The waters seeping from an underground stream had exposed the child’s rotting flesh to the elements. Doubtless more remains could be found downstream of this place.
‘Buried corpses!’ he grunted. ‘How long since this hole was filled do you reckon, Snorri?’
‘The grass is thick, master, but it’s only about twelve inches long. Several months, I’d guess! Do you think that these villagers have been murdered?’ Snorri wasn’t particularly afraid for, as a Dene warrior, he understood the cruel ways of nature. Children were born, they flourished for a time and then violent men, illnesses or wars cut them down like flowers in a storm.
‘If they had died by human hands, these perfectly habitable cottages would have been claimed by other kin or landless men. This village is deserted, so disease is the unseen killer.’
‘Is it the plague?’ Snorri’s question caught in his throat as he looked back at his companions who were searching industriously through the overgrown vegetable patches.
‘Say nothing about this graveyard, Snorri, until I discover the truth of the matter. Whatever the case may be, disease will die in long-abandoned places, and it can’t affect vegetables that have been pulled from the earth. I’ll consider the whole situation first.’
When their patrol returned to the encampment at the cove with their booty, Arthur was pleased to see that other groups had harvested some of the native wheat and other produce from the fruit and nut trees that surrounded the village. The settlers were collecting winter supplies far more easily than they could have expected.
‘Truly, Arthur,’ Lars said with a laugh. ‘This land seems determined to make me fat. Your slave has even found a cow with a young calf.’
Ingrid had chanced on a cow and its calf as the animals were cropping grasses only a stone’s throw from the shelving beach, and she had already borrowed an adze from one of the farmers to cut down saplings and lash a fence together that would separate the cow from her calf, a youngster long past the time when it should have been weaned. Several sailors eyed the calf and licked their lips in anticipation of fresh meat, but a quick check revealed that the calf was female and far more valuable as a breeding heifer.
‘It’s fresh milk, Ingrid. Ingmar has probably forgotten the taste of it,’ Arthur said with a wide smile, but the six-year-old boy took his words seriously.
‘No, I haven’t forgotten, Master Arthur. Mother told me we would be able to make butter and cheese from the milk and, once we’ve threshed the grain, she’ll show me how to grind it for flour. And then we’ll be able to have freshly baked bread.’
‘I thought you wanted to become a warrior, young man, rather than a cook or a farmer.’
Arthur could see the boy testing and rejecting answer after answer. ‘Mother has told me that a clever man should master many skills, my lord. Even warriors must eat and, sometimes, they must make do and live off the land. I wish to be a man of many skills so I can serve you well.’
Pleased, Arthur swung Ingmar onto his shoulders and proceeded to point out the remains of the Roman road that scarred the landscape. His good mood lasted all the way through a scrappy meal, after which he held a meeting with his captains to determine the disposition of his vessels during the coming winter. Then, tired after a full day of effort and excited discovery, Arthur rolled himself into his sleeping furs in the tent he shared with Germanus and Gareth.
But, try as he might, he was unable to sleep. Eventually, he made his bed in a nest of grass near the perimeter where he could gaze up at familiar stars. The constellations wheeled around him and the night seemed more like summer than autumn. Though Arthur knew that this fine, warm weather was one of winter’s jests on unwary Britons, he felt embraced by the earth, as if his homeland was choosing to welcome him home with fair weather and good fortune.
‘Long may it last, dear God, long may it last. The encampment is secure and the night is dry and warm. What more could a man want?’ He lifted a drowsy hand in salute as a sentry drew his sword at the sound of an unexpected voice.
But an icy rain began to fall just before dawn, and drove Arthur back into his tent. Outside in the coppice, he heard the flapping of great wings and knew that an owl was on the hunt. He began to say his prayers like a frightened child.
CHAPTER XVIII
SEGEDUNUM AT WALL’S END
For in every ill-turn of fortune the most unhappy sort ofunfortunate man is the one who has been happy.
Boethius, De Consolatione Philosophae, Book 2
‘According to Myrddion Merlinus, the one quality that the Romans had that overrode every other consideration was their predictability,’ Arthur said drily as he looked out at a miserable rain-drenched day. Lars’s nose was red with a cold, the Troll King was bitching about the pains in his knees and Snorri was observing the weather with his usual jaundiced eye.
‘What are you talking about, Arthur?’ Gareth asked for the edification of all the members of the council who were huddling around a small fire.
‘The Romans built fortresses wherever they were likely to be attacked. They crossed the mountains and fought their way through Gaul and then sailed over the waters to Britannia. The same strategies were always followed: capture an area and then build a fortress to control it. As far as the south-west and central areas of Britannia are concerned, this rule held true. I’ve seen it often enough. And they had enemies to spare here in the north of this island, so they built a defensive wall that stretched from sea to sea just to keep the blue-faced Picts out.’
‘You’re probably right, Arthur,’ Lars replied. ‘But what are blue-faced Picts? And I don’t see what old Roman building methods have to do with us.’
When Arthur and his British friends were in the Dene lands, he had been ignorant of ordinary matters. But now that they were in a place where his local knowledge held sway, he rather liked the feeling.
‘The Picts are a violent and barbaric tribe of people who used to control all of Britannia. The British Celts defeated them in numerous battles and eventually drove them into the inhospitable northern parts of the island, which became their new homeland. As I said, the legions built a wall, in fact two, and numerous fortifications to keep them out of Roman Britannia. They are called blue-faced because they tattoo themselves with woad dyes.’
The Dene jarls looked vaguely appalled. ‘Why would anyone want to fight for a country that constantly drips with moisture?’ Lars muttered darkly until Snorri kicked him on the shins.
‘Don’t be a dolt, Lars. The rain will stop sooner or later.’
‘Promises . . . promises,’ Lars grumbled, wiping his streaming nose on his sleeve.
Darting a warning glance at Snorri, Arthur interrupted the whining complaints.
‘I believe we are close to where the first wall ends. It’s called the Vallum Hadriani, and it’s the larger of the two constructions. You’d think that a stone fo
rtress would guard the earthworks at the very end of it, wouldn’t you? How effective would these fortifications have been if the Picts could simply walk around the earthworks and attack the rear of the Roman defences? The Romans didn’t make all that effort for nothing, so I think we’ll find that there is a great fucking fortress at the end of the wall. In fact, I’d be prepared to bet my balls on it.’
The other men nodded their understanding, if not their agreement. As usual, Arthur’s ideas were certainly logical, although Thorketil grinned at the idea of anyone collecting on a wager involving Arthur’s manhood.
‘So that great fortress will have been constructed at the end of that overgrown road heading west from the village.’ Arthur pointed out through the pouring rain. ‘If we should decide to follow it, there might still be enough of the fortifications left for us to use.’
‘But won’t the local thane have taken that fortress for himself? Surely, he’d be using it to his own advantage.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But the Saxons and Angles tend to tear down Roman forts and replace them with their own timber buildings. Other solid defences have been left to rot. I, for one, don’t understand their reasoning, but if the local thane has acted like his contemporaries, we might find a safe and dry fortress in which we can spend a comfortable winter.’
The council members examined Arthur’s proposal from every possible angle. Eventually, they agreed that a small patrol should carry out a reconnaissance mission to search for the old Roman fortress and, at the same time, determine whether any lands in the vicinity were populated. With his usual decisiveness, Arthur announced that he would lead the patrol.
He knew that Snorri, Germanus and Gareth would expect to travel with him, but he had no intention of taking all the fluent Celt-speakers on this journey. If something went wrong, the Dene could lose all their people with local knowledge in one engagement, tantamount to suicide.
Arthur allowed Gareth to join him, aware that he would refuse to remain behind.
As well as Gareth, Lars had the quick thinking, intelligence and flexibility needed for such a dangerous enterprise. To flesh out the group, he needed brawny men from other ships, so he selected Harald Leifsen, a tall, red-bearded warrior with a nasty adze in his belt that he used with the facility of an axe. The fifth man, a Geat called Ragnar Sigurdson, was darker than most Dene men, but he stood at six foot eight inches in his bared feet, and was dwarfed only by Thorketil, whose hamstrung leg made him unable to withstand the rigours of such a journey on foot. Finally, to ensure that most of the disparate members of their small mission were represented on this important patrol, Arthur selected a fiery cousin of the southern Jarl, Knud Thorvaldsen, to round out the group.
As soon as he made his choices known, there was an immediate outcry of protest, but Arthur’s concise explanation of the reasons for his selections was soon understood and accepted by the pragmatic Dene leadership.
‘But what if you meet strong resistance?’ Snorri demanded with the usual complaint that the Dene settlers would be lost if Arthur was killed or wounded. But Arthur had heard this tedious argument before and was prepared to counter it.
‘Do you speak the language of my people, Snorri? With the exception of Gareth and Germanus, none of our people can. Nor does anyone have the knowledge to make the command decisions needed if we are to find permanent bases. These are assessments that only I can make, so I must undertake the journey. I can assure you that I don’t plan to be killed, not now that I’m about to establish our presence in these lands.’
‘Humph!’ Snorri’s opinion was crystal-clear, for he was almost as protective of Arthur as Gareth. However the rest of the council agreed with Arthur, so Snorri was forced to comply. Germanus was as sullen as his disciplined nature would allow but, like Thorketil and Rufus, he knew his age was an insurmountable handicap.
Snorri was incensed when he realised that Lars had been invited to join the reconnaissance party. Acidly, he pointed out that Lars was a sea captain and essential for the sea voyages that would return their longboats to the Dene homeland in the coming spring. His loss in a land battle would be a catastrophe.
‘Can’t you see my reasoning, Snorri? You’re the helmsman of Sea Wife, the flagship of the Dene fleet, so you’re responsible for the entire flotilla. In that regard, you’re far more important than I am, or Lars, for you will be the only man among us who can successfully lead our people home to the Dene Mark if a disaster besets our expedition.’
‘I’d prefer you don’t fuck around with me, Arthur. That decision was hardly fair!’
Snorri sulked for hours.
By the morning, sullen rain was still falling when Arthur, Gareth and the four Dene warriors set out to determine what lay at the end of the Roman road.
‘This dribble isn’t real rain,’ Lars complained, as he huddled inside his arctic furs. ‘This piss is a drip, drip, drip, like an old man with a limp dick. I wish it would really pour down – and get it over with.’
The cold rain was the first indication that winter proper was just over the horizon and the Dene had started to believe that snow, ice and deep cold might never come to this green land.
When the patrol reached the Roman road, they found it was straight and true, but overgrown with weeds. It soon became obvious that the road had only been used sparingly, if at all, during recent years. Despite this, Arthur ensured that all six companions remained fanned out and alert for a possible ambush.
At one point where the road ran parallel to the fast-flowing river to the west of the village, they discovered an overgrown crossroad which would have normally taken traffic over a bridge, now ruined. Across the flooded stream, Arthur spied dressed stone rising out of a natural mound of earth and realised that a thick-walled building of some kind had once guarded the river mouth.
‘Gareth! Lars! See? What did I tell you? The Romans built a small fort here that would guard the northern banks of the river. See, Knud? But the bridge has been destroyed by marauders and the fortress is derelict now.’
‘So? What do we do now that we’ve found this fortress?’ Lars asked hopefully, keen to evade the steady drizzle. Ragnar had covered his long hair with a hood of hide and was trying to find his comb; like many Dene and Geat warriors, he was extraordinarily proud of his hair and beard.
‘This road must go to a place of some importance, so we’ll continue till we reach the end.’
The group continued to follow the roughly paved way. As they walked, Ragnar took the opportunity to neaten his beard with the assistance of a comb of walrus tusk.
The road moved parallel to the general windings of the river, despite the curves and loops followed by the waterway as it snaked its way through to the coast. Arthur noted the depth and width of the stream, which would easily accommodate the vessels in his fleet. The road gradually widened, and the going seemed easier, regardless of the cold downpour which showed no sign of abating. The land was rich, but the few cottages they saw revealed no signs of life, so Arthur became increasingly certain that plague had come to these lands from trading ships. Wherever the vessels landed, death must have followed quickly.
Squelching in damp boots was an almost welcome experience for Arthur since he could still remember how he had plodded through the mud to build the Warrior’s Dyke in the south-west long before he even became a man. By comparison, the boots used by the Dene warriors were constructed for warmth in fine weather. They were very soft when compared with the sturdy ox-hide specimens worn by Arthur and Gareth, and ideal for fighting because of their flexibility. Unfortunately, they failed to keep out heavy rain and slush.
When the men became hungry, the patrol stopped and ate the food that Ingrid had prepared for them. Then, as night fell, they hunkered down in a barn beside an abandoned cottage. The hay smelled stale and possessed the distinctive reek of rat, but the roof was watertight and enough dry wo
od was piled in one corner to light a fire. Gareth took some time to strike a spark from the flint because his hands were trembling and stiff from the cold. Once it was coaxed into life, the spark was protected and nurtured until the tinder and crushed-up leaves from the corner of the barn leaped into vivid tongues of flame.
The night proved to be both long and wearying for Arthur. He was so close to his dream that he railed against every small hiccup that slowed his inexorable march toward the home of his heart, even as he recognised that it might not be the haven he sought. On the one hand, he wanted a kingdom so he could stand within the halo of Artor’s fame and be a fitting son. On the other, he knew that he would never be acknowledged as an heir to the High King.
He longed to clasp his parents in his arms and know the sweet belonging of his boyhood, but inexorable years had passed since he left his home. Yet he was still determined to return to Arden Forest, but only when his Dene followers were safe and secure and had been reunited with their families. His hubris had dragged these followers from their northern homes; he could never abandon them to chase his own desires. Only in the distant future could he consider riding off to Arden to discover what jokes Fortuna had played on him for his sins.
Curled into the straw like a child, Arthur slept in complete exhaustion, still harried by dreams that crumbled into dust through his fingers and a green she-dragon that laughed at him from her undersea ossuary.
‘Do you think you’ve escaped from my reach, earthworm? Do you think that your fires will be stronger than mine when you are on land?’ Her tongue flickered as it licked her malachite lips. ‘Men are such fools! The primal powers of fire and ice remember their forging by the gods, and only a fool seeks to escape his destiny. You will be remembered as the Ice King, and the scrolls will shout your name as the father of a great kingdom.’