The Saxon Shore cc-4
Page 74
When he fell silent I sat nodding, absorbing what he had said.
"So then," I observed eventually, "what you are telling me is that these other peoples, these 'Saxons,' are a mixture of many tribes and all of them are as alien to you, the Danes, as they are to us, the people of this land?"
He nodded slowly, a peculiar expression on his face, which might have been ironic amusement. "Precisely, Master Merlyn. Save for the minor point that we, my own people, now count ourselves among 'the people of this land.' But you are essentially correct. The Anglians are among the most prolific of these aliens, but the true Germanic tribes, the Saxons, are the most savage, and all of them seek a foothold here in Britain. They are determined, too— more so, perhaps, than we are. We can control our borders at this time, but they swarm everywhere around us like wasps. We fight them off, but like the wasps they resemble they are difficult to kill in sufficient numbers and they die hard, stinging even in death. And the survivors build new nests, far from the eyes of seekers."
I sat mute after that. Hengist's analogy was apt, and chilling.
XXIX
Later that day, towards evening, we were summoned to a festive meal prepared to welcome Hengist home after his long absence. Vortigern's formal hospitality proved to be no less impressive than the informal welcome we had received. The meal was sumptuous and the courses startlingly varied, and tumblers, acrobats, musicians and mummers regaled the gathering throughout the event. The assembly broke up suddenly, however, in the wake of an incident of violence caused by some slight, real or imagined, offered by one drunken young man to an older, more sober warrior. It flared up quickly and was soon over, and it occurred at sufficient distance from where we sat at the dais table to ensure that we were unaware of it while it was going on. The first warning that anything was amiss was a sudden increase in the volume of men's voices, and then Hengist was on his feet, moving quickly, pushing his way determinedly and with great purpose through the crowd of men who suddenly thronged together, craning their necks to see what was going on.
Vortigern, who had sprung to his feet with the rest of us, sat down again and leaned sideways to speak to Ambrose, and I bent close to hear what he was saying. It was something about bad blood, but before I could ask for an explanation, the crowd parted and four men approached the dais from the far end of the Hall, carrying a fifth, his tunic drenched in blood. They carried him face upward and his head hung facing us, his eyes wide and sightless, already glazed in death.
Vortigern rose slowly to his feet again, his body tense, his face stony with rage. In a choking voice he asked who had done this and a man was named. Moving stiffly then, his limbs jerking almost like those of an automaton, the king stepped forward and reached out a rigid hand to the dead man's face, closing the sightless eyes with a gentleness that belied the tension in his stance. Then he closed his own eyes and flicked his hand sideways, indicating that they should take the dead man away. Over the heads of the others, thanks to my elevation on the king's dais, I saw a knot of grim-faced men hustling a prisoner—evidently the killer—from the Hall.
Order was quickly restored, and the din subsided as people resumed their seats and their interrupted activities. Hengist did not return to the dais, and shortly afterwards, muttering apologies to Ambrose and me, the king quit the table, too, and did not return. For the remainder of the time spent in the Hall, Ambrose spoke constantly with others, slipping easily from the local dialect into Danish, depending upon whom he was talking to. For my part, I sat silent, watching and listening, although most of the babble of voices was unintelligible to my ears, a mixture of the alien language of the Danes and the curiously broadened vowels and slurred consonants of the local Britons.
Not until long after the incident, when Ambrose and I were finally alone, did I have an opportunity to question him on what had happened. He thought for a while, and his eventual response seemed strangely elliptical at first.
"How much did you understand?"
"Nothing, or very little," I responded. "I saw the dead man, as you did, and I know the thing had flared up suddenly. But I don't understand why Hengist disappeared, or why the king went, too. I should have thought they would return, once assured that the culprit had been taken. This kind of thing must happen occasionally. It seems strange to me that it should require the attentions of the two most prominent men in the land, unless the dead man himself was also prominent, in which case he should have been on the dais and not out there among the general throng."
"Aye. Tell me, now that you have seen for yourself, what think you of Vortigern's allies? You still believe he courts disaster, nursing an adder in his bed?"
"Aye, I do," I said, speaking slowly. "But not quite as strongly as I did before. Not since meeting Hengist. I liked him far more than I expected to, and I can see now why Vortigern has placed such trust in him. Hengist is a man of honour. He would never betray that trust."
"Aye." Ambrose nodded his head deeply. "Hengist is an honourable man. But Hengist is growing old. When I left here to ride to Camulod his hair was black as night."
"So? All men grow old, Ambrose. Vortigern himself has aged greatly since I first saw him in Verulamium. So have we. What has that to do with what happened tonight?"
"Nothing, and everything. Your assessment of Hengist is completely accurate. He is honest, dependable, completely trustworthy and capable, and his friendship for Vortigern is unimpeachable. But he has a son who is not half the man his father is in such respects."
"Horsa? How is he different? I have not seen him since we arrived."
"Nor will you, for he is not here and will not come here. He is somewhere on the coast with his army—his own army. It was one of his captains who did the butchery tonight. That's why Hengist did not return to the dais. His son, or his son's supporters, have made sure that Hengist will be busy now for days, seeking to keep the peace."
"Among whom, his own people?"
"Aye, some of his own, but mainly Vortigern's folk. The dead man was a Briton."
"Bad blood," I said, feeling my own concerns about Vortigern grow stronger. "That's what Vortigern was talking about, isn't it?"
Ambrose nodded, his face solemn. "That's it. For thirty years the folk of both these races have existed peacefully, side by side, but all of that has changed since I've been away." He paused, considering that, then resumed. "It had started prior to that, now that I think of it, and all of it—or most of it—is Horsa's doing. He's an arrogant and overbearing young lout, intolerant and unbiddable, save to his father, Hengist. He was still a lad when I left here, well-nigh as big as his father, but yet young enough to be controlled by him. Now all of that has changed, it seems. Horsa has grown to manhood, and he controls the younger hotheads among the Danes.
"He is still in awe of his father, and to a lesser extent of Vortigern himself, but the day is coining when Hengist's age will permit Horsa to dominate him, or at least to flout his authority more openly than he dares attempt today."
"And his followers, Horsa's, I mean—are they from both camps?"
"No. His followers are Danes to a man. None of Vortigern's folk at all. That is Hengist's problem, and it will soon be Vortigern's. The older people, the established leaders, have complete faith in Hengist, but his son's behaviour is worrisome to everyone, and insupportable to some. Yet what can Hengist do? Horsa is his son and, to this point at least, he has done nothing overtly culpable, and nothing openly deserving of chastisement. His people, his supporters, are outrageous and insufferable in their behaviour from time to time, but that cannot, in conscience, be laid at Horsa's door." He sighed, a sudden, gusty sound of impatience. "But Horsa will assume his father's leadership in the course of time. As things stand, despite his grave concerns, Hengist cannot simply dispossess him, short of causing civil war, and things are too far gone already, even for that. Horsa is too strong and now he stays away from here, secure among an army of his own."
"And yet his people, his supporters, like this captain of
his, move among the people here quite openly?"
"Oh aye, it has not come to open hostility. Not yet."
"But it's inevitable, you believe?"
Ambrose nodded. "It would seem so."
I sighed. "So it appears our father was correct, when all is said and done. Even despite the integrity of a friend such as Hengist, Vortigern courted death when first he brought the Danes into his land."
"Aye. I have no doubt of it now, although I've argued long and hard with you about it in the past. I've changed my mind within the past few days, after the conversations I have had with people whose opinions and judgment I long since learned to trust. Vortigern himself may not live to see it happen, and Hengist certainly will not, since he would and must die rather than permit it, but the day is coming when the Dane will rule alone in Northumbria and Vortigern's folk will be dispossessed and reduced to the status of servitors."
"Slaves."
He frowned quickly. "No, not slaves. I doubt it will come to that. But they will be reduced to servitude."
"Hmm. So what will happen to the man who killed tonight?"
Ambrose raised one eyebrow. "It already has, I should think. You'll see him hanging from a tree somewhere tomorrow, in plain view. I said Hengist is growing old. He's far from toothless yet. The first step towards placating those offended by the killing here tonight must be the public and immediate punishment of the offender. He was probably hanged as soon as they took him out of the gathering. What he did was indefensible. It was also political, and probably deliberately planned."
"What, for effect? Are you suggesting the man made a deliberate sacrifice of his own life for Horsa?"
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed
in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE SAXON SHORE
Copyright © 1998
by Jack Whyte
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce t
his book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Map by Ellisa Mitchell
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
Forge* is a registered trademark of
Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Whyte, Jack.
The Saxon shore / Jack Whyte.—lit trade pbk. ed. p. cm.
"A Forge Book"—T.p. verso.
ISBN 0-765-30650-6
1. Arthur, King—Fiction.
2. Merlin (Legendary character)— Fiction.
3. Great Britain—History—-To 1066—Fiction.
4. Arthurian romances—Adaptations.
5. Kings and rulers—Fiction.
6. Britons—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.3 .W4589S39 2003 8I3'.54~dc2l
2003049140
Printed in the United States of America
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