Meryn spun towards Cal. 'Keep the girls quiet, the Picts are getting close.' The
four girls cast tear-filled eyes towards the old archer and stifled their sobs as Cal
whispered quietly to them. The two boys were also scared, but were trying their
best to be brave and follow Cal's example.
Meryn shook his head and sighed. 'This isn't going to turn out good if we
stick together. I'm going to try and lead them in another direction, maybe pick a
few off if I'm lucky.' He pulled Usher away a few steps, and then lowered his
voice even further. 'Listen, lad, we have to put some distance between those Picts
and these children. Hide here for a while until you hear them going after me,
then I'll lose them and swing back to join you later.' His grip on Usher's
shoulders became tighter. 'We've now entered the tribal land of the Trinovante.
Keep to this path and don't leave it. If you keep a good pace, you'll come to a
settlement called Witney before sunset, rest there. Man named Egan is the local
reeve. You can trust him. He's an old friend and the Trinovante are fine people if
you don't mind their ways.' Meryn looked up as a long drawn-out call echoed
through the still forest. Another cry answered it, much closer than the first. 'Stay
low until they're gone.' With that, he was away, darting through the undergrowth,
already notching an arrow as he ran.
Usher glanced across at the tangle of bushes where Cal crouched with the
others. The children all looked scared and he offered a smile of encouragement
before creeping over to them.
'Don't worry; everything will be fine as long as we can stay as quiet as mice.
Meryn will lead them away from here and then we can get moving.' He glanced
round as a sharp scream of pain sounded close by; a moment later it was
followed by the sound of a body falling to the leafy forest floor. A low moan
came from somewhere through the bushes about twenty paces away. Usher
glanced at the girls and held a finger to his lips to make sure they remained
silent, large eyes stared back at him. They scuttled back further into the bushes
and huddled together, shivering. Cal held his arms protectively around his sister
and motioned for the others to come close, and then he nodded for Usher to go
and see what was happening.
Moving with all the silence he had learnt from the hunters of his village,
Usher crept through the thick forest growth in the direction of the sounds. It
didn't take long to find the man who had cried out. A Pict warrior, lying eyes
closed with his face wracked in pain, one of Meryn's arrows protruded from his
chest. The Pict was clutching it, blood oozing between his fingers. From the
pained rasping noises the man was making, Usher guessed he wasn't going to
live much longer. That would leave only five, as long as others hadn't joined
them.
Sounds of approach broke the silence. Someone was pushing cautiously
through the bushes, each footstep a soft rustle in the dead leaves. Usher shrank
back, trying to lose himself in the shadows beneath a large blackthorn bush. He
held his breath, not daring to move. The dying Pict's eyes fluttered open as he
realised someone was coming. Usher was surprised to see that, as one of the
other Picts came into view, the dying man appeared to be more fearful than
relieved. The reason soon became apparent. Instead of helping him in any way,
the newcomer ignored him and carefully scanned the area, then roughly pulled
off the fallen warrior's pack and, without any ceremony or kindness, searched
him, paying no heed to the grunts of pain or words of apparent appeal spat out in
the rough Pict tongue. Taking a knife and a few coins, the newcomer threw the
pack to the side, muttered something that Usher couldn't understand, and then
swiftly severed the dying man's throat with a sharp, violent cut. Without another
thought, he turned his back upon his fallen companion and began studying the
forest floor. Usher wanted to scream and run, but willed himself to lie quiet and
not breathe. He couldn't take his eyes from the Pict.
Dark intense eyes stared out from a face that glistened wet with patches of
blue mud. Usher had heard tales of the Picts and their blue-painted faces. Indeed,
he knew that many of the tribes painted designs on their skin with the same type
of mud made from crushed woad plants, but nobody did it in Usher's village, and
to be near this one was terrifying. The smell of the man reached out towards
Usher. It was stale and musky, reminding him more of the smell of an animal,
mixed together with something altogether more acrid. Usher covered his nose
and continued to stare out through the thin cover of blackthorn branches. The
Pict was squatting down no more than five paces away. The warrior's hair hung
in thick greasy clumps, like so many lamb's tails hanging from his scalp, held
back from his face by a band of rough hide. A heavy beard thick with blue mud
caked his cheeks making his face appear twisted and misshapen, Usher
shuddered and forced back an overwhelming impulse to simply turn and flee.
Snorting noisily, the Pict continued to study the ground and then moved
closer; following something that only he could see in the fallen leaves. Usher
listened to his heart beating and offered up a silent prayer to the spirits of the
woods.
A shout and then a scream from some way off made the Pict look up, but he
didn't run, or turn away as Usher had prayed. Instead, he looked into Usher's
eyes and smiled.
* * *
Driven by a stiff easterly wind, rain was falling in a constant misery from a
thick covering of cloud. Unseen in the early evening light, eight Saxon
longboats, each holding over sixty warriors, cautiously approached the coast of
Britain. The laboured rowing of the oars, dipping to each low beat of a drum, the
sound that had held them together, and brought them so far.
Their journey had taken many days of battling through rough seas and bad
weather without any luxury of shelter or rest. Hugging the continental coastline,
their passage had led them south from their home, lured by tales of a rich land
newly deserted by its Roman masters; it was an invitation they could not resist.
Once far enough south, and at a point that they judged was the narrowest
divide, they had gathered their courage and turned away from the security of the
coast. The sight of land was gradually lost behind them, and they ventured
across an open, hostile sea, in search of the fabled kingdom hidden behind
curtains of cloud. Floating above deep water, their superstitions and beliefs set
fear in their hearts but gave strength to their arms, for they faced far more than
mere stormy weather. Every hardened warrior amongst them had set out from
land with the sure and certain knowledge that below their small boat, when they
ventured into deep water, was an ocean filled with giant sea creatures that would
hunt them and surely devour them. If they should manage to pass quickly
enough and not attract the attention of one of these monsters, then they still
sailed at the mercy of angry gods that entertained themselves in the torment of
man and were given to unleashing their wrath at the slightest of whims.
Now across the expanse of water and with land in sight once more, their
journey had been blessed with survival, and the voyage was near its end. The
boats, high prows carved and painted to depict roaring mythical beasts, followed
the sullen coastline until they finally bit into the shingle of the eastern shore of
Britain. The long oars were silently stowed, the large square sails lowered, and
the first Saxon warriors jumped down into the shallow water and ran up the
beach; their feet crunching heavily in the loose stones. It was the task of these
brave few to defend their brethren from any foes concealed within the tree line at
this, their ships most vulnerable time, it was an honour granted only to the battletested elite. Behind them, others dropped down, gripping ropes of twisted flax
and hemp, and began pulling the boats higher, beyond the clawing reach of the
breaking waves.
The lead boat stopped moving, a rough plank appeared over the side, and a
single Saxon warrior, ignoring the frenzied activity around him, descended onto
the beach. As soon as he felt land beneath his feet, he stooped, picked up a
handful of stones and, drawing in a deep breath, let them drop slowly through
the fingers of his clenched fist. Raising his huge head, he cast about the beach
and nodded in satisfaction.
His size easily set him apart from his men. His arms were thick with heavy
bands of silver and gold, and he carried the scars of countless battles, worn with
pride as his right to rule over others and marking him as a mighty warrior. He
scanned the beach through heavy, sunken eyes that squinted out beneath bushy
eyebrows and around a thick and pitted nose. A strong jaw was concealed
beneath a dark beard, broken at its centre by thick fleshy lips that were drawn in
a smile of anticipation for what was to come. It was a collection of features that
made a particularly unpleasant face.
As with most of his men, a conical helmet with decorated nose guard
protected his head but his had the addition of a layer of chainmail falling behind
to shield his neck. A woollen tunic fell past knee level, covering thin linen
britches that were bound around the calves with leather strapping for ease of
movement. At his belt hung a sword, a pouch holding a few personal
possessions, and a seax, the long single-bladed knife favoured by all Saxons.
Taking a deep breath, he removed his helmet and allowed the cold wind to
tug his long hair loose as he surveyed the coast with a critical eye. The wind felt
good, the chill causing little discomfort. The country they had journeyed from
was also one of biting cold and if anything, the weather on this new land felt like
home.
'Britain. I have waited a long time to greet you, and now at last I have
arrived.' His voice was deep and carried an undercurrent of anger as he surveyed
the land he had come to conquer. He glanced up as one of his men emerged from
the trees and ran down the beach towards him, coming to a stop in a spray of
stones.
The warrior slapped an arm against his round wooden shield, a greeting
returned by the slightest of gestures. 'We are close to a small village,' the warrior
pointed to the south, 'and there's a large stone building some distance inland.
There is no one here to greet us.'
'He will be here; we are of one blood, and one bone. Burn the village, and
then follow us inland. I shall take this building of stone and await my brother
and the others there.' Dismissing the man, Hengist returned to his vigil, scanning
the beach and trees, his brow creased in thought. Where are you Horsa? We have
journeyed to the right place and I hunger for the sight of you. Sighing once
more, he looked back to where the boats lay on their sides, unloaded and secure
above the surf. Instructing three men to watch over them, he turned and started
up the beach, already impatient to leave. His thoughts turned back to the task at
hand, the conquering of these British Isles that cried out for a new ruler now that
the Romans had deserted it. This would be his land.
'Now our day has come,' he murmured to himself, as he drew in the deep
sweet air of Britain. 'This land will soon tremble at the news of our coming, and
the names of Hengist and Horsa shall be sung in the mead halls here for all
eternity, for the Saxons have now truly arrived.'
* * *
The Pict leaped forward with a shriek of triumph, arms outstretched,
reaching for Usher to pull him from the security of the bush towards a certain
death. Scrabbling back, Usher dug his heels in and then desperately tried to turn
around and get away, but he wasn't fast enough. He felt the Pict's hand wrap
around his ankle and begin to drag him out, jabbering incoherently and cackling
with delight as he did so. Spinning back around, he stared into the ugly blue face
that loomed above him and felt a cold rush of panic overwhelm him. A moan
escaped his lips and he thrashed about, trying to hold onto the bush, a root,
anything, but nothing came to hand. In an act of desperation, he dug his fingers
into the forest floor and threw a handful of dirt and leaves up into the grinning
face and the warrior jumped back with a piercing scream, his hands immediately
going to his eyes where he rubbed furiously trying to clear them, shouting and
screaming in pain and frustration.
It had been instinct, rather than fighting tactics that had saved Usher, but for
the moment, he was free and the Pict was blind. He gazed up and stared for a
moment as the Pict clawed frantically at his eyes, blinking back tears, peering
about, searching the shadows blindly. The eyes were red in the blue face and the
warrior began rolling them erratically and cursed in the strange, coarse Pict
tongue before rubbing at them again, which only seemed to be adding more dirt
and blue woad, which in turn made him even madder. Then his head snapped up
and, blinking rapidly, his watery gaze turned in Usher's direction once more.
Usher stopped breathing, only exhaling when the sightless eyes moved past him.
Throwing back his head, the warrior let out a shrill undulating cry and
several birds erupted in an explosion of feathers from the branches high above.
Usher knew the cry would bring the other Picts to them and began to scan the
surrounding trees fearing the first would soon arrive. He had to silence him.
Edging forward, his eyes never left the Pict who continued to mutter and rub
at his face. For a moment, Usher contemplated getting back to the others and
running as far and fast as they could. But the Pict would keep calling, the other
Picts would find him, and then they would know which direction to search for
them.
He managed to move three steps but then his foot came down on a branch
and the sound of it snapping echoed through the trees. The Pict spun and stared
right at him, and Usher felt panic rise again. Taking another careful step, he
realised the Pict wasn't looking directly at him, he had been drawn to the
breaking stick and was still blind but now moving cautiously in the direction of
the sound, hands outstretched, shouting challenges as he came. The warrior's
face was a mask of hatred and contempt as tears, dirt, blue woad and now blood,
all smeared together making him appear like some kind of evil spirit. Fear
threatened to loosen Usher's bladder, but he raised a foot and stepped cautiously
to his left, watching as the Pict drew his sword and stabbed forward and then to
the sides in a vain attempt to skewer him. Dragging his gaze from the Pict for a
moment, he scanned the ground ahead and carefully circled further around,
searching the Pict's movements for an opening. Seeing a branch, he stooped to
pick it up, along with a smaller one that he tossed to the other side to distract the
circling man.
'Yaaahhhh!' With a cry, the Pict leapt forward and slashed his sword in a
vicious arc, lopping a branch from the bush close to where the stick had landed.
When it met no more resistance than the bush, he sprang back and began turning
about in a slow circle, head cocked to one side, listening intently.
He continued to circle, but this time, when his back was turned, Usher
dashed forward and brought the branch down hard onto the back of the sticky
blue head. He watched in relief as the man collapsed soundlessly into the dead
leaves.
Edging closer, Usher kicked his arm, the warrior groaned and made to rise,
and with a sob of dismay, Usher brought the branch down once more and then
again even harder. A wave of nausea rolled over him but at least that time, the
Pict stayed down.
Cal appeared and glanced from the downed Pict to the branch in Usher's
hand. 'Did you kill him?'
'I don't know… I don't think so.' Usher stared down at the fallen man and felt
an urge to throw up; but his stomach was empty and he only succeeded in
making a hollow retching sound. Wiping saliva from his chin, he gazed
transfixed as blood trickled down the man's face, mingling with the blue mud.
His eyes fluttered for a moment and Usher felt a sense of relief flood through
him, he hadn't killed him. 'Quick, help me pull him into the bushes.' He bent
down and took the man's arm and, with Cal's help, they set about dragging him
into the shadows.
'He's heavy,' remarked Cal, as he strained to move the dead weight of the
Pict through the leaves.
'Well, the other's going to be heavy as well, but we have to get them out of
sight. There could be more along any moment.'
'Usher?' hissed Cal, stopping for a moment. 'If he's still alive… do you think
we should kill him?' He stared into his friend's eyes, clearly unhappy at the
thought of any more killing.
'I… I don't think I could,' said Usher at last. 'Could you?' Cal shook his head
with obvious relief. They went back out to the clearing for the dead Pict with the
arrow in him, creeping silently, listening and straining their senses for any
sounds of others approaching. When they got to him, they roughly grabbed him
by the feet and dragged him back through the bushes and lay him alongside the
first, and then ran back out to cover their tracks and the bloodstains.
Once back alongside the two Picts, Usher pulled away the long strips of
leather the fallen warriors used to hold swords and packs, and then tied up the
unconscious one, binding his hands and feet then gagging his mouth so he
couldn't cry out.
'This sort of feels worse than killing him,' murmured Cal, staring down when
they had finished. 'If his friends don't find him, he could die like this out here in
the forest.'
Usher shrugged. 'He was going to kill me; I saw it in his eyes just before I
threw the dirt into them. This is better than he would have done for any of us.
Anyhow, he's now in the hands of the spirits or whatever gods he has looking out
for him. We have to get out of here.' Picking up the Pict's short sword and bow,
he moved off through the bushes back to where the others still waited.
Keeping off the path, the little group made its way through the forest with
the occasional sounds of the remaining Picts fading behind them. Twice they
heard distant cries of pain and hoped that it was a Pict warrior and not Meryn.
The archer had managed to give them the opportunity of escape, but they hoped
he hadn't paid for it with his life.
The middle of the day came and went without the opportunity to eat, and it
was late in the afternoon when they finally emerged from The Weald, their
bellies aching with hunger. Despite their misery, the children were silent, having
given up their sobbing much earlier in the day.
They made their way along the path as it crossed a shallow river and then
meandered close to the forest without ever entering it again. When later they
came across a blackberry bush, it proved a good distraction as, happy for a
while, they picked the few overripe berries left by the birds, and crammed them
into their mouths, grinning blackberry grins. Nevertheless, both Usher and Cal
knew they had to find more substantial food and shelter before nightfall. The
thought of another night exposed to the weather without any proper hot food was
not something either wanted to face.
They finally moved on, entering open, rolling meadowland with a small herd
of deer grazing about two hundred paces away, next to an isolated clump of
trees. The largest stag had already seen them and was watching them warily with
head held high.
'Don't even think about it,' said Cal, smiling at the way Usher was fingering
the bow he had taken from the fallen Pict. 'We don't have the time or energy for a
chase. Anyway, the village must be close and Meryn seemed sure we would
receive a warm welcome there.'
'All right,' said Usher, a little reluctantly, 'but I'm sure if I got closer through
the trees, then we could have taken one of the deer into the village as an
offering.'
'Just how do you think we would carry it?' asked Cal, with a grin. He slapped
Usher on the back and, taking Nineve's hand, encouraged the others on once
more with promises of warm fires, food, and the chance to sleep on soft furs.
They trudged on through the remainder of the afternoon and finally arrived
at the village as the sun was dipping low on the horizon. It was larger than they
had expected and surrounded by a newly built palisade of timber. Several men
were erecting the last few heavy tree trunks, standing them upright into holes
dug in the ground, and then trimming the sides to fit close to the next before
pointing the tops to discourage anyone from climbing over.
'It looks like they're expecting trouble,' said Cal, eyeing the workers. Usher
nodded, then wondered at how distrustful the world had become in such a short
time. Just a few weeks ago, they would have entered a strange village secure in
the knowledge that shelter and food would always be offered to strangers, no
matter from what tribe they came. Now here they were, wondering if the
reception they might receive would be hostile.
As they approached, one of the men looked up and waved to them, then
spoke to someone they couldn't see on the other side of the wall. They stopped
where they were and a woman came out wiping her hands on a large cloth.
Smiling, she beckoned them over.
'Come in, 't'aint nothing to be feared of here in Witney, not for children that
is, anyhow. Come… come.'
Usher bit back the retort that they weren't all children and pushed the others
forward.
'Let's go in, she seems friendly enough,' he muttered. As they walked
forward, he offered a smile to the woman and raised his voice. 'We were told by
Meryn Link to come here, and then to ask for the Reeve who is known to him, a
man named Egan? We…' He didn't get a chance to finish as the woman came
forward and gathered the small group of children into her arms; the girls
immediately began sobbing again.
'Oh, you poor little things, where did you come from?' She looked up at
Usher. 'My name is Bell, and I'm wife to Egan who is indeed the Reeve here. I
also know Meryn Link well enough; too well, I'm afraid. Where is the old
rogue?' Without waiting for an answer, she started into the village past the
workers, guiding the girls protectively in front of her. 'We can speak once we
have some food inside you, but for now, welcome to Witney.'