“Maybe,” says Betula. “How many of them were there?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty? About twice the size of your camp outside,” the old man replies.
“And the others were all fair-hairs?”
He nods.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” says Hrothwulf. “There are a lot of fair-hairs living in Haesta’s settlement. He’s been attracting Iutes who disagree with Rex Aeric, or those fleeing from his punishment — and Saxons seeking freedom from Aelle.”
Betula turns sharply to the chieftain. “You seem to know a lot about them.”
Hrothwulf shrugs. “They’re our neighbours, for better or worse.”
“If the raiders came from the West, they would have passed through your land.”
“The river is easily crossed further upstream, deeper in the forest.”
“But that would mean they went out of the way to avoid this ford. Don’t tell me they were so frightened of your clan militia.”
Hrothwulf smiles a dishonest smile. “You’re assuming they came from Haesta’s land. Maybe they came from the West. Or the Downs to the North.”
“Somehow I doubt they did.” Betula scratches the tip of her nose with her thumb. “Have you heard them say anything?” she asks the old man. “What did they need those supplies for? Where were they taking them? It’s not easy to sell a Iutish slave in Britannia.”
“They didn’t seem to have a plan,” Penga says. “They kept arguing about it. Some spoke of going to New Port; others said it’s too far to march with the captives — said they should find some Franks to trade with. I don’t know what they decided in the end.”
“There you go,” says Hrothwulf with a satisfied grin. “If they came from Haesta’s land, why would they go to New Port?”
“I don’t know.” Betula leans over to me. “Something’s not right about this.”
I nod but have nothing to reply. I feel like I’m disappointing her with my silence. She’s used to my father’s company on these campaigns; he would know what to say to either confirm or refute her suspicions — but I don’t even know what those suspicions are. This is my first time marching into combat, and I have no idea what’s expected of me, other than to carry a sword and, hopefully, help get rid of a few enemies. To me, the matter is clear: Haesta sent his men to harass the border villages, not counting on our fast response. If we hurry, we may have a chance to intercept them before they get rid of their captives, one way or another.
“May-may,” I stutter. “Maybe we could send out some patrols across the river.”
“In the middle of the night?” Betula chuckles.
“No — of course not. Never mind.” I stare at my feet.
“No, wait, you’re right,” she says.
“I-I am?”
She looks out the door. “The moon is bright; the land is flat. We might surprise them. I’ll go tell the men. Can the boy stay here tonight?” she asks Hrothwulf.
“Of course — I have a guest room in the back, safe and warm,” the chieftain replies. “I’ll give him my best covers. It’s not often we get to host a king’s son!”
I don’t know if it’s the bad mead, the unfamiliar surroundings, the excitement of the sudden journey, or everything combined; I can’t sleep — I thrash and twitch in the bed, under the thick, embroidered blankets given to me by Hrothwulf’s wife. I stare at the thick, thatched roof above me and I study the knots in the wood of the rafters.
I reach for the sheath of my seax, lying next to the bed, and feel the comforting, rough cool of leather binding on the hilt. If Betula’s patrols find the raiding band, tomorrow I might face the enemy for the first time. I may have to kill my first man. I have trained for it, but am I ready?
My father slew his first enemy when he was sixteen, fighting in what the scops are now calling the Battle at Aelle’s Ford — though it was only some forest bandits attacking a passing caravan. In the years that followed, he would go on to kill dozens more, in many battles and skirmishes; but, he once told me, he would remember that first woman forever: the way his knife entered her stomach, the way her neck spurted blood on his hands, until they were so slippery he could no longer hold the hilt…
What will my first kill be like? I hope it will be quick, so that I don’t have to think about it too much. Maybe it won’t happen tomorrow — not every warrior in a battle gets to slay an enemy, and I will be far from the front line. But eventually, it will come, and it will have to come soon — I can’t possibly be a leader of a warrior tribe without ever ridding a man of his life.
A leader.
Soon after my father first brought me to Cantia and explained who he was and what he wanted my destiny to be, I revolted. I hid in a fishing village, then tried to make my way back to Londin. Betula’s warriors found me before I reached Robriwis — but they didn’t take me back; they just asked that I allow King Aeric to meet me one more time.
It was there, in a tiny, dark, stuffy fisherman’s hut that my father told me his vision of the future — not just of the Iutes, but all of Britannia, even the Empire itself — and my role in his plan.
“The world everyone knew for generations is falling apart,” he told me. “It’s not just Britannia that is splitting into small kingdoms. Gaul does, too, and so does, I hear, Iberia… Christian kingdoms, heathen kingdoms… It happened before, a long time ago, when Alexander’s Empire fell. And it doesn’t end here. The weak kingdoms will fall apart further — and the strong ones will gobble up the pieces between themselves. And what makes a kingdom strong?”
“A strong king?” I guessed.
“Continuity,” he said. “Rome suffered through countless weak Imperators, yet it thrived for centuries because of the continuity of its laws and institutions, because transition of power remained uninterrupted, even between tyrants, even between fools. It survived Caligula, it survived Commodus, it survived even Elagabal.” He knew I’d read enough ancient writers under Bishop Fastidius’s tutelage to follow his lecture without much trouble. “The Empire floundered not when the Imperators were weak but when the institutions failed. A gap between dynasties meant chaos, civil war, fire at the borders, loss of provinces. This is what will happen to us if we don’t establish continuity. The Britons, the Saxons, the Picts, the Franks — each will want a slice of the Iutish meat.”
“Then all you need from me is to be a symbol for your grand idea. An accident of birth is to decide my destiny, not my talents, not my desires.”
“You will always have a choice, my son. A choice I never had. My promise still stands — you’re free to do with your life what you want. But —” He lay a hand on my shoulder and gave it a strong squeeze. “ — I truly believe you are the best contender to be the next king. Otherwise, I would’ve just adopted someone more suitable.” He chuckled. “Not because I’m your father but because Eadgith was your mother.”
His words rang true, but I had no way of knowing if his prophecy was accurate. The Iutish kingdom had no borders, other than the ones we shared with the Briton province of Cantia, so there was no frontier for anyone to swallow. The various Briton tribes in Londin and beyond quarrelled and squabbled with each other, but then, there was no threat of open conflict — they were too weak after Wortimer’s war, too afraid of the heathens on their doorstep to risk wasting their energies on fruitless conflicts. I had little idea about the situation in Gaul, and much less about Iberia, or lands further away.
But no peace lasts forever. The pirates, the sea raiders, Haesta’s outlaws — there are enough of these attacks now to keep Betula’s warriors and the clan militias busy throughout the year. I’m not sure what’s causing this rise in hostilities; harvests have been good, trade is thriving, the serfs are fed and content… Is it simply an inevitable circle of time, passing from peace to war and back to peace again, or is there something more sinister going on? My father and his advisors would know more, but he’s not sharing this knowledge with me and, until now, I haven’t really been all that interested
.
I must have dozed off as my mind wandered, for when I open my eyes again, there are pale white wisps coming through the thatched roof above my head. I hear crackling. I smell wet smoke. Groggily, I wonder what’s going on. Is it a dream — or a bad memory? I remember a burning hut like this six years ago, when Wortimer’s men attacked my home village. My mother was away, selling her tools at the Saffron Valley market. My mother’s husband — the man I then believed to be my father — ran outside with a meat cleaver to face the invaders. He never returned. I waited — until it was too late. A falling roof beam barred my way out; I was trapped. The flames roared around me; the smoke filled my lungs. I crawled through the rubble like a lizard, in poisoned daze, as the house was falling apart around me. The smoke was black and thick but brightened within by the fire licking the walls and sparks bursting with each shattering beam.
When I at last found my way out, I saw my foster-father dead, pinned with a dart to the ground, the cleaver still in his hand. A hand in iron gauntlet grabbed me by the hair, picked me up and threw me onto a wagon. Most of the other children of the village, my playtime friends, were already there. Soon, the wagon would carry us away to the West, where each of us would be taken to a church or a hermitage, and I would never see my foster-father again. To this day, I don’t know where — or if — his body is buried.
Again, I lose a few precious minutes to brief sleep, my mind not yet adjusted to the urgency of the situation. It is only when an arrow with a flaming rag tied to its shaft pierces the roof and hits the floor a foot from my head that I fully wake up, instantly sober and alert.
I hear shouts outside, but they come as if through fog. Cold sweat covers my hands and my brow. My vision narrows. My head spins, either from the smoke or from fear. I grab the sword and rush, naked, to the door. It’s a solid barrier, made of thick oaken boards — and it’s locked. I rattle at the handle. It won’t budge. Behind me, the thatch begins to fall through in fiery clumps. The blankets catch fire. The holes in the roof act like chimneys. Smoke fills the room. I start coughing. In the darkness, I stumble, seeking the pitcher of water I prepared for morning ablutions. I pour it over myself and go back to the door. I start banging on the boards and call for help. My throat aches. My voice grows weaker, thinner, more desperate. It turns into a panicked wail — then a sob: “It’s locked! Help me! Save me! I can’t get out! Open up, somebody, please…”
Somebody rams into the door from outside. I fall back. They ram again. The door bursts open. I can’t see who it is — and I don’t care. I run outside, naked, coughing, weeping, screaming. I spot Hrothwulf and, not paying attention to why he’s holding a large axe and why he’s bleeding from his shoulder, grab him by the collar and shake him.
“Why did you lock me up!” I yell through tears. “Why did you lock me up?”
Betula runs out of the burning house, pulls us apart and slaps me in the face.
“Stop your blabbering, Octa! It was latched from inside,” she tells me. “You locked yourself up. Brave Hrothwulf almost died trying to get you out. Now get that sword and make yourself useful — we’re under attack, if you still haven’t noticed!”
It’s a disaster.
Not for Betula’s warriors who, after initial confusion, gather around the farmstead in a tight formation; I watch them spread into a crescent, then a wall — not of shields, for there’s no need for such complex tactics when fighting a bunch of bandits — but of spears, swords and flesh. The attackers emerge from the darkness in waves of four, five, six; the assault doesn’t seem coordinated in any way, there is no war chief shouting orders, no order to the chaos. It looks like the bandits put all their hopes in the element of surprise, and when that failed, they could think of no other way to defeat us — and now that they’ve committed to the attack, they can’t figure out how to untangle themselves from it. As soon as she gets the situation under control, Betula sends out a few men along the riverside to strike at the bandits from the rear. Before long, they realise their way of escape is cut off; some make an attempt to fight their way out towards the woods. Others drop their weapons and surrender.
Not for Hrothwulf; the flames consume the roof over the guest room and part of the kitchen, but the rest of the big house, built on the solid brick foundation of the old smithy, can easily be repaired. Nobody on the farm suffers any serious injuries, apart from Hrothwulf’s arm, shattered in rescuing me from the fire. His farm is safe, his clan victorious, his honour undiminished, though it’s the Hiréd that did most of the fighting.
It’s a disaster for me. As soon as my head clears enough for me to realise what’s going on, I rush into the brawl with nothing but the sword in my hand. But my actions are too hasty; the smoke is still in my lungs and in my eyes. Dizzily, through tears, I stagger towards the nearest enemy. I slash at him with the sword but miss. He parries with his axe, easily throwing the weapon out of my weakened hand. I stumble back, trip and fall. He stands over me, raises the axe in both hands over his head. I cover myself and cry out in fear. The bandit cries, too — in pain. I look up: a small throwing axe juts out of his chest; blood spurts from the wound all over my naked body. I don’t need to look to know who threw the axe — it’s Betula’s favourite weapon, and she can launch it as precisely as an archer launches an arrow, even if she can throw it only with her left hand.
The bandit makes two staggered steps back and disappears from my sight; a thud tells me he hits the ground, but I have no time to feel relieved when another warrior takes his place. This time, two of Betula’s men appear above me; one fights back the enemy, the other drags me away. The sharp gravel digs furrows in my bare back. After a few paces of this, the warrior picks me up and carries me to the safety of the camp, and leaves me there, like a mewling child, before returning to the fray.
Abandoned to my own devices, I putter around the camp as the fight rages on outside. I find some breeches to put on; my clothes perished in the flames. I wash myself from the soot and blood in the river. The cold water sobers me up and I face the enormity of my humiliation. So much for being a warrior; so much for being a leader of men. So much for ever becoming anything like my father. I was never going to be a hero of this expedition — not in the company of the tribe’s finest warriors — but I certainly did not expect that everyone would witness me as a naked, weeping coward.
The sounds of combat are dying out, and soon the first injured return to the camp. Their wounds are light, and they are still exhilarated by the battle rush. They’re laughing, boasting, telling each other how they slew one enemy or the other in a particularly gruesome way — but then they see me, by the campfire, and their voices turn to subdued whispers and grunts.
They will never say this to my face — they are my father’s guard and know better than to insult his son openly — but I know, after tonight’s performance, they will never respect me again.
I remain by the campfire until dawn, unmoving, silent, wallowing in my shame. The others all avoid talking to me, busy tending to their wounds, fixing their equipment, washing their clothes in the river; Betula asks only if I’m alright, and brings me a spare tunic and a woollen cloak — the morning turned cold, with the breeze blowing in from the sea and mist rising from the river. From the snippets of conversations around me, I gather the story of what happened at night.
The attack came as soon as the patrols departed to seek the enemy’s camp. They crept up to the big house from the west, shot flaming arrows and threw flaming darts on the roof to sow chaos and confusion, while the main assault came from the north — but whoever planned it, failed to take into account the training and cold blood of Betula’s warriors.
At daybreak, the patrols return. One of them had discovered remains of a camp some five miles north, and a track, splitting in two, one branch heading west, the other south, back to Hrothwulf’s farm.
“You have a rat among your household,” Betula tells Hrothwulf. “It takes a few hours to organise an attack like this. Somebody must have info
rmed them as soon as we arrived.”
“I figured as much, Gesith,” the chieftain replies. “I have a few suspects. You can leave this in my hands, I’ll deal with it swiftly.”
“I intend to — we’re not staying here long.”
She orders the men to break up camp and prepare to ride out.
“It wasn’t the entire band,” she says to her officers. “There were no mounted warriors, only untrained footmen.”
They speak standing over my head, as if I am not here. I stare into the fire with my arms wrapped around my knees. My sword lies beside me, mocking me with its unblemished blade.
“They distracted us while the main host fled into the woods with the plunder and captives,” says one of Betula’s men. “They couldn’t have gone far in the darkness.”
“I fear it might be too late,” says Betula. “If they are the forest bandits, they will know the secret paths. Get me a few of those prisoners,” she commands. “Send the rest back to the ship. I need to find out who’s leading this band, and why.”
“I still think it’s Haesta,” I murmur quietly, when the others depart with orders.
“This was too sloppy for Haesta,” she replies. She squats beside me and reaches out to warm her hand in the fire. “We must have taken out more than half of that band tonight, with barely any casualties. It may be that one of Haesta’s men is in command here, but he himself is too clever to try something like that.”
“You praise him? After everything he’s done to us?”
“It’s a grudging respect. Not even your father could have defeated him without Aelle’s help. Above all, he’s a survivor. He escaped Londin when Wortimer was purging the city from Iutes. He lived through the war, defending Tanet. I fought him and his men many times after Wecta; he escaped unscathed every time. This —” She nods towards the smouldering farm. “ — is not the way he does things.”
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 4