The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4)

by James Calbraith

  I am, perhaps, the only person in the tribe who understands my father’s complaints. For everyone else, being a Rex — or even a mere Drihten, warchief, as Hengist was before my father forced him out — would be the greatest, unattainable achievement of their life. But for him, who served at one point, if briefly, as the right hand of the Dux of Britannia, at the court in the great city of Londin, it must have felt like a demotion.

  I don’t ask him why, if being the king is so bad, he wants me to succeed him; we have, indeed, talked about this many times before. I understand his reasons, and I am resigned to my fate as much as he is to his, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “It would be lighter if I knew how to carry it,” I say. “I have no authority, other than among my handful of friends. I have no knowledge of the world, other than what I’ve read in the books. I don’t know how to lead men, how to make them respect me, how to make them fight for me, rather than with me. You say there are less opportunities now to be a hero — but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any! How long are you going to keep me sheltered here, like a hatchling in the nest?”

  He runs his fingers along his chin, neck and the back of his head, ending with a scratch at the balding patch at the top.

  “That was a fine speech, but your accent is slipping. Anyone in Londin would be able to tell you were a barbarian.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Hand me the cloth, please,” he asks.

  He towels himself dry in silence. The light of the oil lamp has all but died out by the time he puts on the white tunic and the plaid breeches; still, he says nothing.

  “Father —”

  He stops. “You have a point,” he says at last. “You’re not a hatchling anymore — you’re a fledgling, and you need to start spreading your wings. I will talk to Betula about what we can do with you.”

  “You make it sound like she’s my mother.”

  “No, son.” He smiles, pensively, as he tightens the sword belt. “Nobody could ever be like your mother.”

  I lie on the grass of the old Rutubi amphitheatre, reading a new book Ursula sneaked out from her mother’s library at Dorowern: a description of a journey from Rome to Gaul, in verse couplets, by some Roman poet called Rutilius; I don’t get to read many books now that I live with my father among the Iutes, rather than in Londin, with its great libraries; yet this one might be my favourite of all. Rutilius’s description of travel along Italia’s coast in the wake of a Gothic invasion forty years ago is supposed to invoke in his reader a sense of loss and destruction: forest encroaching on abandoned farms, rivers no longer bound by bridges, harbours silent and empty; but in me, it only stirs a longing to see more of the world outside the borders of my father’s kingdom. All the names sound exotic: Arelate, Tolosa, Pisa, Triturrita… all the cities, even in their ruinous state, remind of the glories of Londin and the Briton towns I remember passing on the way back from my western captivity. The language of the book, a High Imperial Latin, is flowery and difficult, at times, to decipher, but it is so beautiful that I find myself reading the verses aloud, just to let the words, no doubt mangled in my mouth, caress my ears with their melodious sounds.

  As always when I read about Rome’s glories, I ponder the unfathomable choice the Britons made more than fifty years ago, when they decided to throw out the Roman magistrates and to rule the island by themselves. And they fared badly at it: civil wars, rebellions, breakdown of all trade and civility. In the end, they split into tiny, conflicted factions, first by provinces, then by the pagi, and up in the North, perhaps even into smaller shards, reverting to the ancient animosities between the tribes and clans older than Rome itself. In my brief captivity in the West, I saw how the part of Britannia that did not remove all its ties from the Empire prospered in peace and unity; but they, too, were cut off from the old network of trade and diplomatic routes that the island was once in the centre of. And by the time I found myself a war orphan in the old monastery on the windswept western cliff-side, there, too, the Empire became little more than a memory, the Briton officials and nobles merely playing at being Romans.

  Somewhere out there, beyond the Narrow Sea, the Empire still exists, still survives; surely, it’s still not too late for Britannia to one day return into its fold, like the Prodigal Son of the Christian Scriptures? I can’t understand why the Britons are more interested in their petty island conflicts than taking part in the greater events unfolding on the Continent. My father doesn’t want to talk about it; he may have once been one of them, but after all that the wealas did to him and the people he loved, he can no longer bring himself to care about their fate. The fate of the Iutes is now all that concerns him. And there isn’t anyone else in Rutubi with whom I can discuss these matters, except maybe Ursula.

  A jarring, thudding sound interrupts my meditation; a pony appears over the ridge of the amphitheatre’s crumbling auditorium. One of the Hiréd warriors rides up and tells me to join him in the saddle. “You’re wanted back at the fort,” she says.

  The rest of Betula’s men are already at Rutubi, gathered in the centre of the courtyard before my father. He’s wearing his full regalia — the silver circlet of the Rex and the boar-skin cloak of the Drihten.

  “It looks like you may get your wish sooner than either you or I expected,” he says, when I dismount. “I’m sending you with Betula to the South. Pack your bags; the ship departs in an hour.”

  “An hour? What’s happening?”

  “There’s been a raid on the villages near Leman. A large one. If we hurry, we can still intercept them.”

  “A raid — Frankish pirates?”

  “I hope so — I’d like to get my hands on them.” His eyes flash with anger. “Gods know how many people we lost to those slavemongers.”

  Other than the Picts and the Brigants coming in from the North of Britannia, the pirates from across the Narrow Sea have always been the main threat to Cantia’s shores; the fort at Rutubi was raised to defend the harbours from them back when they hailed mostly from the lands of Saxons and Frisians. But the Saxons have now settled in Britannia peacefully, and Frisia’s coast is being swallowed by swamp and flood, and so the pirates are now Franks — or at least, that’s what they call themselves, since the crews are usually made up of whatever bunch of rustlers, bandits and adventurers they can gather on the shores of Gaul and beyond.

  There isn’t much left to plunder in Britannia other than men, so the pirates’ main trade these days is slavery. It usually takes them only a couple of days to round up all the suitable serfs at their landing place; it’s rare that we get a warning advanced enough to catch them in the act.

  “I’ll go get my friends,” I say.

  “There’s no time — or space,” my father says. “The ceol in the harbour can only take twenty riders.” He notices my hesitation. “Unless… You’ve changed your mind?”

  “No, Father. I’m going.”

  “Good. I’d go with you, but I need to prepare for the move to Robriwis.” He clenches and unclenches his fists.

  “Already?”

  “It’s that time of the year. Go, son. Kill one of them for me. Nobody takes Iutes into slavery and gets away with it — not while I’m the king!”

  CHAPTER II

  THE LAY OF HROTHWULF

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Betula asks the ceol’s captain.

  “This is Bilsa’s Stead,” the man replies. “Just like you asked.”

  I step up to the ship’s edge and look at the remains of a cluster of fishing huts, clumped together around a small, shallow inlet of the Narrow Sea. The sight of land should calm me down; we’ve been chasing a strong, northerly wind all day. The storm season may have just ended, but the gusts are still powerful enough to make one’s stomach churn. The little ship heaved and leaped in the waves like a bucking pony. A journey that would take us two days on horseback, took us less than six hours along the coast — and I feel each of these six hours in my guts.


  But the burnt-out shells of huts make me feel just as queasy as the rolling waves. I haven’t seen a village destroyed like this since the Britons invaded my childhood home, and I realise my father has sheltered me from the harshness of the world for too long. Yes, there’s been mostly peace in Cantia since the war with Wortimer ended; but the farms are still being raided, the ships are still lost at sea, and people are still being killed, especially in these frontier lands, between Rex Aeric’s Iutes and Rex Aelle’s Saxons, where neither warlords’ power reaches quite far enough.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask the Gesith. I can sense the colour and warmth slowly returning to my face.

  “There’s no trace of any ship,” she replies. “Not so much as a landing mark on the beach.”

  “Maybe we’re too late? Maybe they’ve gone back to Frankia?”

  She shakes her head. “We would’ve seen them pass us by. And look,” she adds, pointing, “the huts near the shore are the least damaged. Whoever attacked this place, came from inland.”

  She turns to the captain. “Take us south. And hurry.”

  “South?” I ask, when the captain leaves to order his crew. “You don’t think — Aelle?”

  “I don’t think anything. If they’re pirates, they must have landed somewhere else. If not — we have a chance to catch them before this northern wind calms down for the night.”

  The single grey sail unfurls again and fills out on the breeze. The oarsmen start their rhythmic song and heave at the oars, launching the ship south-west, towards the darkening sky. The boards creak under the strain. The crew is as eager to find the raiders as the Hiréd. The ceol, named The Swallow, still smells of fresh wood and tar; she’s one of a handful of new ships built at my father’s order, to help deal with the pirate raids and assist the renewed trade with Gaul and Frankia, but, so far, with little success.

  The next few farmsteads we pass along the shore appear plundered and abandoned as well, though not burned — whoever raided them was not interested in mere wanton destruction. These are Briton farms as well as Iutish, as this far south along the coast the Iutes have only begun to settle; it makes no difference to us — according to treaties of alliance, King Aeric’s warriors are tasked with defending the wealas and their own kindred alike, in exchange for the land.

  We reach a broad river estuary, and the muddy shore begins to arc back towards the south-east. To the south, the land rises over the marsh into a low plateau of dunes and sharp rocks. The setting sun touches the dune-tops.

  “That’s Limenea,” says the captain, nodding at the river. “If we go any further, we’ll cross into Haesta’s territory.”

  “We’ll sail to New Port if we have to,” says Betula. She looks towards the estuary. A couple of well-built timber huts stand on the northern shore, surrounded by crab apple trees in bloom; neither the huts, nor the orchard bear any sign of damage. “Who lives on this river?” she asks.

  “Swineherds, mostly,” the captain replies. “Good pasture land.”

  “Iutes or Britons?”

  “Iutes,” he says. “They came here even before the war. Survived by hiding in Andreda.”

  “How far to the nearest ford?”

  “Five miles, maybe. I can land by those trees, if that’s what you want.” He glances up. “And I’ll have to stay there for the night, it looks like.”

  “Do what you must,” says Betula. “Just be quick about it. And keep an eye out for any passing ships. Those pirates might still be out there.”

  There is no village here — just a number of small farms, most consisting of single-room huts with enclosures for pigs and goats. Some are roundhouses in the old Briton style, but a majority are Iutish rectangles, sunken into the ground, with thick thatched roofs. They’re simple but well kept.

  We pass a swineherd, returning from a nearby hazelnut grove with his drove. He greets us, raising his stick in the air.

  “Hael,” replies Betula. “Where can we find your clan’s elder?”

  “Hrothwulf lives in the big house to the north, by the river bend,” the swineherd says, pointing his stick. “With the stone chimney. Can’t miss it.”

  “Why do you think we can find something out here?” I ask Betula, after we leave the swineherd and start climbing a low hill.

  “If the raiders came from inland, as I suspect, they will have to cross this river on their return,” she replies. “The captain mentioned that the locals hid in Andreda during the war. They might know a thing or two about what the bandits are up to around here.”

  “You don’t think it’s really Aelle — or Haesta?”

  “If it’s either, it’s usually both,” she replies. She stares at the dark line of Andreda forest. “Though I do hope it’s just some bandits. We haven’t had any trouble from the Saxons since last summer. This must be the place,” she adds.

  The stone chimney mentioned by the swineherd is all that remains of a Roman iron bloomery, raised on the river’s edge. A large house of lime-washed walls with a carved gable stands around it, using stone from the furnace as foundation. A wooden watchtower atop a low mound next to it overlooks several farm buildings, a round-walled stofa and a large barn, all surrounded by an earthen wall.

  “Someone’s doing well for themselves,” I note. It’s rare to see such affluence in a Iutish village this far from Tanet.

  “Someone knows to expect danger,” says Betula. She seems more interested in the earthen wall and the watchtower than the rich house.

  A single spearman guards the entrance through the earthen wall. He takes one look at our warband and runs off to summon his master. Moments later, the clan elder emerges from the big house, tying the rope in his breeches and wiping crumbs from his moustache.

  “Hael, Gesith!” Hrothwulf calls. “And, if I’m not mistaken, young aetheling?”

  Betula frowns. “You know us?”

  “I saw you last year at Leman, at Rex Aeric’s court. I invited him to move here,” he says, spreading his arms. “He shouldn’t have to live among those dirty wealas. Have you come to review the place? There’s plenty of good, solid land to build a mead hall anywhere between the river and the forest.”

  “We still haven’t finished the hall at Robriwis,” I say. “Maybe later my father will consider your offer.”

  “Oh —” He stutters, perplexed. “But then — why did my king’s son and his best warrior come all the way here, unannounced?”

  “We’re here to help you with the raiders,” says Betula. “Or have you not noticed them passing through your land?”

  He falls silent and wipes his hands on his tunic. He turns to the guard. “Go get Penga,” he orders. “Wake him up if you have to.”

  “Come with me inside,” he then tells us. “I’ll get the mead. Your men can set up camp on the riverside — just look out for the fish traps.”

  “How did you find out about the raiders?” asks Hrothwulf as he pours us the mead. “I only got the bad news yesterday myself.”

  “Horse courier from Leman,” replies Betula. “One of Rex Aeric’s new ideas. First time it worked.”

  It wasn’t a new idea — indeed, it was a very old idea: a network of mounted couriers, passing messages between the forts of the Saxon Shore along the old Roman roads — but it was my father who decided to revive it, more than a generation since its demise, to connect his three courts at Leman, Rutubi and Robriwis.

  “I didn’t think it worth your trouble,” says Hrothwulf. “We can take care of ourselves here. I was just about to gather the clan militia to hunt that band tomorrow.”

  “Then I was right,” says Betula. “It wasn’t pirates.”

  Hrothwulf laughs. “Pirates? By the gods, no. Pirates rarely sail past Leman, and if they do, they go straight for the Saxon lands. There’s nothing here to take but our pigs.”

  “And men,” I say. “Do you not fear the slavers?”

  “The men know to flee into the woods at the first sign of danger. We survived Wortimer’s w
ar; we won’t be threatened by some pirates — or forest bandits.”

  The door opens into the night. The guard lets in an old, grey-haired, bent man with dark eyes and nose like a hawk’s beak.

  “Penga,” Hrothwulf introduces him. “He’s lived here longer than anyone.”

  “You’re a Briton,” I notice.

  “Am I?” the old man chuckles. “I’ve lived among you fair-hairs for so long, I almost forgot.”

  “Why did you drag this poor old man out of bed?” asks Betula.

  “He saw what happened at Bilsa’s Stead.”

  Betula turns to the old man with a raised eyebrow. “And you survived?”

  “The slavers have no need for someone like me,” the Briton replies. “And when you reach my age…”

  Betula nods impatiently. “I know. You learn a few tricks. I’ve heard it before. What did you see?”

  “They came from the West, Hlaefdige,” Penga says. “Some on ponies, most on foot. The village folk resisted as well as they could, but the fight was short against well-armed warriors. The raiders killed all men, took women and children — and all the supplies they could carry. Food from the winter stores, firewood, tools…”

  “Ponies? Not war horses?”

  “There was only one man on a horse… Their chief. A dark-skinned, bald man clad in leathers and fur. Didn’t seem to be from around here.”

  “Haesta’s mercenaries.” I spit out the despised name.

  There isn’t a man alive that I hate more. Hengist’s cousin, scion of one of the most noble of Iutish clans, Haesta always believed it was he who should have succeeded his uncle as ruler of the tribe, not my father. His failed revolt against Hengist was the spur that launched my father’s bid for the kingship… More importantly to me, it led to my mother’s death on the distant Isle of Wecta. My father fought him, and beat him and his army of mercenaries, marauders and outlaws three years ago, but he could never vanquish them for good. The warband settled on the border land between us and the Saxon kingdom, under protection of the Saxon Rex.