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

by James Calbraith

  I fall silent. Even Betula has more respect for Haesta than I could ever count on. If my father died today, what would she do? She was my mother’s friend, and I’m sure she would protect me from harm, but that doesn’t mean she would necessarily support my right to the circlet. Would she join Haesta instead, or at least let him do as he pleased? I know she understands my father’s ideas, and agrees with the need for continuity, for establishing the new, enduring laws and traditions — but the Kingdom of Iutes is no more than five years old; things can still change without too much harm. If it was Haesta who started the new dynasty instead of Aeric, would anyone care — or even notice? In the long run, it wouldn’t matter. The sagas would need a quick rewrite, that’s all. A hundred years from now, even if anyone remembered the brief rule of Rex Aeric, no one would ever mention his cowardly son — unless as a joke…

  “Does Haesta have a son?” I ask.

  “If he does, the child would be very young,” she replies. “He didn’t have one when he was exiled. Why do you ask?”

  “I — nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

  One of the officers returns. “The prisoners are ready, Gesith,” he says, pointing to the big house. “So are the men. We can ride out as soon as you give the word.”

  “Good.” Betula stands up. She wipes her hand from the dirt. “Have them eat something first — and eat well. It might be a long ride.”

  “What do we do with him?” He nods at me.

  “What about him?”

  He lowers his voice, but not enough for me not to hear him. “He’s in no shape to ride. Or fight. And the men —”

  “I understand.” Betula touches my arm. “Octa, I’m sending the captives back to The Swallow, to your father — and I need a few men to guard them —”

  I shrug my arm from her grasp. I stand up and stare, furiously, at Betula and the officer. “Don’t treat me like a child. I know what you mean. I’ll go. I’d only be in your way, anyway.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE LAY OF URSULA

  Left side — top — right side — step back. Left side — top — right side — ow!

  I drop the wooden sword and rub my bruised fingers. Audulf throws his weapon to the ground in anger.

  “Focus, aetheling!” he shouts. He only uses my title when he’s angry with me. “Today you fight worse than when I first started training you.”

  I walk away and sit on the bench under the wall. The stone curtain around Robriwis is in much better shape than at Rutubi; the fort overlooks the old bridge over Medu, the only paved highway linking Londin with Cantia and the harbours of the east coast, and as such was once one of the most important in Britannia. It was manned for a time, even after the Legions departed, by soldiers in Londin’s employ, and was among the first strongholds given to the Iutes after they were allowed out of their refuge on Tanet. Excepting the brief interlude of Wortimer’s war, the fortress at Robriwis has been in Iute possession for more than a decade now, and out of all Iute places in Cantia it is said to most resemble an Old Country fortified settlement.

  The Iutes are a scattered people — settled among the fields abandoned by the Britons, on forest clearings and in drained marshes, not keeping to the network of metalled Roman highways that the Briton settlements are strung along. A Rex who wants to reach all of his subjects needs to travel all around his domain and needs more than one court. My father, after some trials and errors, devised a system in which he, his Hiréd, his circle of advisors, and everyone else who sees it their business to always be close to the king, spend a third of the year in each of the three capitals of the Iutes — Rutubi in the East, Robriwis in the West, and a temporary one at an inn in Leman, until a more suitable place is selected for the southern, autumnal court. In Robriwis, we spend the finest part of the year — from Thrimilce to Weod, or from May to August by Roman reckoning, when the storms quieten and it’s appropriate for the king and his warriors to stay as near to the busy harbours of the northern coast as possible. Usually, I look forward to our moving here, since it means the long, warm days of summer are near: the days of bathing in the Medu and hunting in the Andreda, long evenings of telling stories and singing songs. But this year, I find no joy in any of these pastimes.

  “What’s the point?” I say. “I’ll never be the warrior that my father was. I’ll never get to lead an army. Not when all my men know I’m a coward.”

  “We all know you’re anything but a coward,” says Bana. He breaks off his mock duel with Gille and sits down next to me. “It was just a stroke of misfortune. You could have died in that fire — it’s a miracle you survived.”

  “I almost died because I didn’t see that the door was latched from my side. Because the fire made me panic. Like a weakling that I am. Like a child.”

  I glance towards the middle of the yard, where other young warriors are training today, while the Hiréd rests. Five of the boys who beat us up at Tanet are here — the sixth one remained with his family back at Rutubi; they see me looking at them and grin back mockingly. Our forces are equal now, and I should be thinking of ways to wreak our vengeance on them, but my spirit is crushed enough to not want to risk yet another humiliation, so I just look away.

  “There will be other opportunities to show your bravery,” says Bana.

  “Not while we’re stuck here in Robriwis. We’re even further from the frontier or the pirates here than we were at Rutubi.”

  “You just need to ask your father to send you on another mission with the Hiréd.”

  “My father won’t talk to me,” I scoff. “He’s too busy. Or so he claims. Everyone wants to speak to him about some urgent matter or other — they’ve been waiting eight months for the court to be back. You can imagine how many court disputes that left unsolved, how many trade deals and friendship treaties unsigned…”

  “What about the feast tomorrow?” asks Gille. “Nobody should bother your father there — and he’s bound to be in a good mood after a few barrels of mead…”

  “I-I don’t think I’ll be going to the feast. I don’t want to see Betula and those officers of hers again.”

  Yesterday, Betula and her men returned from the South. Tomorrow, at a feast thrown in their honour, they will present their findings — and their captives — before my father and his advisors.

  They will also, no doubt, bring the story of my humiliation with them. I haven’t told it to anyone yet except my friends, and that after much prodding when they saw me brooding after my all-too-soon return from the mission. The warriors who came with me on The Swallow were not interested in spreading rumours, but somehow, I sensed everyone in the fort already knew exactly what happened…

  “You have to be there,” says Audulf brusquely. He draws a real blade and swishes it through the air a couple of times. “You’re the aetheling. If you don’t go, then everyone will think you’re a coward.”

  I leap up to him with fists clenched. He steps back, pointing the tip of his knife at my chest, and laughs. “Get your sword out, Octa!” he says. “Maybe a threat of real injury will help you focus better on the training.”

  “That’s quite enough, you two.” Gille steps between us. “I swear, as soon as Ursula’s away, you both turn back into children.”

  “When is she coming back from Dorowern?” I ask, gritting my teeth. I push Audulf away, unclench my fist and sit back on the bench. I notice my right hand is trembling and hold it in place with the left hand.

  “She was supposed to be here today,” says Gille. “I’m sure she’s not going to miss the feast.”

  “She’d better be,” I say. “I need to talk to someone grown up.” I pick up the wooden sword and thrust it in my belt. “I’m done training,” I say. I mean to say “for today”, but I make it sound as if I’m done for good. “I’ll read a book, instead. I still haven’t finished Rutilius. Reading’s the only thing I’m good for, anyway.”

  The mead hall in Robriwis, standing on the foundation of the Praetor’s office, is the oldest of th
e three raised for my father’s court, and the most lavishly decorated. It’s the size of a clan barn, as long as a warship and as tall as a young pine tree, with walls of oaken beams and a shingle roof in the shape of an upturned boat, topped with horse heads carved in the wood of the gable rafters.

  It was built large enough to accommodate the greatest feasts the Iutes can throw: to mark their holy days, like Eostre or Yule, to celebrate the start and end of harvest, or to mourn the death of a seasoned warrior. But today’s feast is a minor one. The list of guests is limited to those already staying at the fortress; no clan elders arrive from distant corners of the province, no envoys from across the Narrow Sea, no delegates from the Briton towns. The long table, covered with deerskins, running in a horseshoe along the walls, is half-empty when we all sit down to the first meal: a stew of carrots, barley and hare meat, sweetened with spring honey.

  Betula and two of her officers enter to loud cheer and cries of was hael! They take the seats of honour opposite my father and me. I can’t look the officers in the eyes; I recognise one of them as the man who asked that I be sent away. Three more Iutes enter, dragging in bandit captives and throw them on the floor. The bandits prostrate themselves before the king.

  The three Iutes are not of the Hiréd — I haven’t seen them before in my life.

  “Are these some of the would-be slaves you freed?” my father asks.

  “Yes, Rex,” Betula replies. “They wanted to come to show their gratitude to you.”

  “You’re welcome,” my father says with a smile. “But save your gratitude for Gesith Betula. I wasn’t there.”

  “You are our Rex,” says one of the Iutes. A confused, servile grimace appears on his face. “Your men do as you command.”

  My father leans towards me. “Three years ago, these people hadn’t even heard the word Rex,” he says, quietly, in Latin. He smiles again at the Iutes and invites them to sit at the far end of the table. “They’re still not sure what it means. Am I just a Drihten by another name? Or am I more someone akin to gods? Do I speak for Wodan and Donar now, or do they speak through me?”

  “And are you?” I ask. “Sure, I mean.”

  He chuckles. “I don’t think I’ll ever be sure of that. No ancient writer wrote a guide for being a king.” He tears off a chunk of bread and gestures at Betula to speak. “Tell us of your victory, Gesith.”

  Betula recounts first the part of the story I was witness to, from landing by the crab apple orchard to the night battle. She omits any mention of my shameful misadventure, but judging by a few snickers scattered around the table, the rumour has already reached Robriwis.

  “We rode out in the morning, following the trail closely,” she continues. “They moved through the woods, using the paths only bandits know — but as you can imagine, it’s not easy to hide a train of captives and mules carrying plunder, even in Andreda.”

  The few warriors familiar with the forest nod appreciatively; my father among them.

  “We tracked them for hours, until the sun started descending behind the pine tops,” Betula continues. “They tried to slow us down — they’d leave prisoners behind them, beaten up and tied down, so that we would need to take care of them. They’d leave archers in the trees to snipe at us from above and force us into hiding. But still we went on, and at last, we caught up to them on a charcoal burner’s glade, near the High Rocks.”

  “That’s Aelle’s land, isn’t it?” my father interrupts her. “You crossed the border in pursuit?”

  “We must have,” Betula admits. “But there are no borders in the forest — and we did not care for it at the time.”

  “Understandably so.” My father nods. “I’m sure Aelle will see it the same.” I can hear in his voice that he’s sure of no such thing. The king of the Saxons has for long been a thorn in our side, and though ostensibly a friend and an ally, he never wastes an opportunity to annoy my father with some ridiculous demand or perceived grievance.

  Clearing her throat with mead, Betula proceeds to tell of the battle on the charcoal burner’s glade. The Hiréd surrounded the bandits in a tight crescent and moved to attack; the fight turned into a series of individual duels, the finest of which Betula retells in more detail. The gathered warriors murmur, nod, grunt and cheer in appreciation, reacting to Betula’s tale as if they were in a theatre. I’m only half-listening. I know the story of the battle will be told and retold many times over in coming months, maybe years, woven into sagas and poems by the king’s scops; had I been there, my name would be in it — just like my father’s name is mentioned in the retelling of every battle he took part in, no matter how insignificant his actions.

  But I missed my chance. And I doubt I’ll ever get another.

  Maybe I should become a priest, like my uncle. Nobody accuses priests of cowardice when they don’t want to fight. I am ready to be baptised — I can read and write in Latin like any Briton; I’ve read the Scriptures and the Church writings. It would ruin my father’s plans, but I know he’d adjust them if he had no other choice. He’d name some other warrior or courtier as his successor; not Betula — she’s a Christian, and she only fights for the Iutes out of loyalty to the tribe and my parents. She wouldn’t be interested in ruling a heathen kingdom. But there are others, just as suitable, among the Hiréd and among his advisors…

  Betula’s story nears the end. Alas, the chief of the warband, the bald, dark-skinned man riding a Gaulish war horse, and a few of his men on ponies, ran away, while the rest of his warriors held the rear; the forest paths were too narrow for Betula to break through without great losses, and so she decided to let them all go free, once she secured the main prize — the prisoners and the plunder from the villages.

  “Running away from a battle — that does sound like Haesta’s training, alright,” my father remarks. “What did the captives tell you? I assume you interrogated them thoroughly.”

  Betula nods at a guard. He kicks one of the captured bandits, prodding him to speak.

  “We are Haestingas, it’s true —” the man says to a few murmurs. My father raises an eyebrow.

  “Haestingas?” he asks. “You took a clan name after the traitor?”

  “We are no mere handful of bandits,” the man replies, and there’s a shadow of wounded pride in his voice. “We’re a clan now, just like any other. Three villages strong and growing stronger by the day.”

  My father frowns. He makes a gesture at one of his advisors — “we need to talk about this later” — and then nods at the prisoner to keep talking.

  “Why is Haesta attacking our villages now? He knows I will be forced to crush him if he goes too far.”

  “Hlaford Haesta did not order this attack,” the bandit replies. “It was our own idea. A foolish one.”

  “No need for you to defend him now. You’re not going back to your ‘Haestingas’ villages no matter what.”

  “It’s true!” The bandit slams his chest with his fist. “Hlaford Haesta couldn’t give us the order — he… he isn’t even in Britannia anymore.”

  My father stands up from his seat. His frown deepens into a dark lattice of furrows. “Not in Britannia?”

  “He’s right, as far as we could confirm,” Betula interjects. “Haesta took most of his mercenaries with him a while ago and left for the Continent again. These men have no chieftain. They are leaderless and restless. And there is something else, too.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Iutes were not the only prisoners we freed in the battle,” says Betula. “There were a few of Aelle’s Saxons there, too.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “We sent them back home.”

  My father sits back down and rests his cheek on his fist. “Curious,” he says. He waves a hand. “Take them away,” he says. “Give them some food. I’ll interrogate them tomorrow myself.”

  The bandits are removed from the hall, and the servants bring in the main dish of the feast: a couple of fine-looking wild piglets, and
a whole young lamb, tender and gleaming with spring fat. As we dig into the meat, an old man in the long, frayed robe of a scop, enters the hall and stands at the raised platform at the far end of the hall; he plucks at the strings of his lyre and proceeds to tune it, waiting for us to finish eating.

  “A brand-new song, Hlaford,” one of the courtiers remarks; fat drips from his chin. “Written especially for tonight’s feast.”

  My father nods. “A new song? I’m intrigued.”

  The wandering glint of disinterest in his eyes tells me he’s anything but. His thoughts are already elsewhere; no doubt wondering what to make of the Haestingas and their random attacks. At last, there’s some new mystery that can sufficiently occupy his quick mind.

  For now, however, he must return to the mundane reality of running a tribe. Between the lamb dish and the scop’s performance, there is time for petitioners to request a hearing with the king. There are only a few of them here tonight — this isn’t a formal audience, of which there will be plenty throughout my father’s stay in Robriwis — but the few that did come bring lavish gifts and equally lavish praise to heap upon the king; hoping, just like Gille predicted, that the delicious spring lamb washed with heady western mead will help keep my father in a considerate mood.

  The scene reminds me of how the ancient writers described the courts of the Eastern tyrants, or Imperators of old; it’s astonishing how quickly the Iutes — and the Britons, for I see a couple of Cants waiting in the line of supplicants — became used to the new situation, with my father replacing the witan as the sole representation, even an embodiment, of the tribe. The Cants are here hoping, no doubt, to gain some amicable trade deal or for him to judge favourably on a land dispute between them and their Iutish neighbours. The Britons have their own ruling Council in Dorowern, but when it comes to disagreements with the Iutes, they prefer dealing directly with my father, rather than appeal through the ineffective Councillors.

  As I watch the petitioners present their cases, I’m struck by a sudden idea. I excuse myself from the table. My father barely acknowledges me leaving, with a slight nod, wearily listening to a Frankish merchant describing his demand for better prices on his fish. I leave the hall, borrow a hooded cloak from a guard outside, and return, standing at the back of the line.