The Saxon Spears Page 6

  I recall all of this now, and am forced to accept Paulinus’s misgivings. I can understand Master Pascent deciding on the theme of the party — he, along with the rest of Vitalinus’s mercenary army, arrived in Britannia long after the fateful vote and had nothing to do with the split from Rome; but the guests are all locals, old enough to remember the quarrels with Aurelius’s faction, even if Aurelius himself is long gone; succeeded, I’ve learned, by his son Ambrosius. One would think remembering those days would bring them nothing but irritation. And yet here they all are, grinning from ear to ear, gaping at the facsimiles of ancient glories. Already I can hear them reminiscing fondly about the past as they move into the shadow of the porch eaves, waiting for the final invitee to arrive.

  The one who’s taking his time.

  Preceded by a marching trumpeter, surrounded by a retinue of servants, a carriage plated in sculpted gold rolls, slowly, up the Londin road. The man — a boy, really — who steps out is not much older than Fastidius or myself. He’s wearing a robe bound with a purple trim, and a wreath of golden leaves over a mess of raven black hair. In his hand he holds a carved bronze rod. He looks just like one of the figures in the murals decorating the dining hall, or one of the sculptures in the domus porch.

  “Imperial purple!” Paulinus seethes. “He dares…”

  “All hail Wortimer, Prince of the Britons!” calls Fulco. I could swear I hear a hint of irony in his voice.

  “Prince of the Britons?” I whisper.

  “Dux Wortigern’s son,” says Lady Adelheid. She bows, for the first time — all the other guests until now had to bow before her. “It is an honour.”

  Wortimer treads the rose petals with majestic strides of sandal-clad feet. The cork platforms of his shoes make him appear a lot taller than me or Fastidius.

  “My father sends his regards, and is looking forward to welcoming you all in his palace soon,” he says, then spots me. His mouth contorts in a sneer. “Well, maybe not all.”

  “Naturally,” replies Lady Adelheid. “I believe my husband is invited to the annual summary next month?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. It’s my elder brother’s duty to deal with these things. Catigern wished to come today in my place, but he caught a sudden illness. This way, I assume?”

  “Yes. Do follow me. Other guests have already arrived.”

  She snaps her fingers at the musicians and servants. As we walk back to the domus, they begin to clean up the flowers and petals.

  Keeping with the theme of the feast, no women are allowed in the dining hall except the servants, so Lady Adelheid bids us farewell and departs to join the wives and daughters of the guests in an adjacent room. The rest of us approach the recliners, to take our positions as practised.

  It feels strange to have to lie down to eat. The table is too far away to reach it with ease. I assume we’ll have the servants bring the food to the couches. I can see some of the guests, like Senisis, are equally uncomfortable with the idea, but we all strive to make the best of our predicament, for our host’s sake.

  The Master and Paulinus have been researching the old scrolls to ensure the accuracy of the seating arrangements. With the horseshoe of couches open to the northern veranda and the garden beyond, Master Pascent, with me and Fastidius at his side, occupies the eastern couch. Paulinus, Pertacus and Wortimer are seated in the middle, and the remaining three guests have to contend with a position on the high couch to the west, with the worst view and furthest from the table.

  Is this really how the Ancients sorted their guests? It seems deliberately insulting to those seated at the high couch. I hope they realise this is all just a part of the theme… if that’s what it really is.

  The servants bring wine, cheese, fried mushrooms, a salad of green leaves and a platter of grapes. The grapes are mostly for decoration: I try one, it’s tart and dry. So is the wine, but maybe I’m just not used to it. I’d rather have ale or mel, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. The cheese, however, is as good as any I’ve ever eaten, and the mushrooms are delicate and crisp at the same time. There’s enough food already on the table to have us all fill our stomachs — I can’t imagine any more being brought in, though the party has only just started.

  The guests raise praises to the host, and congratulate him on reaching the ripe age of fifty. It is a rare feat, even among the nobles: of those at the table, only Senisis and Pertacus are older. The conversation soon moves on to society gossip from Londin: marriage engagements, office appointments, births and deaths — more of the latter than the former, I notice. When the gossip pool is at last exhausted, Solinus raises a different subject:

  “I have to tell you, ever since those Saxons settled at New Port, the business has been booming. No pirates, no brigands to speak of… It feels almost like in Constantine’s days.”

  Wortimer stirs and scowls at the mention of Imperator Constantine, but others nod and murmur in agreement.

  “Yes, but at what cost?” asks Wortimer. “How much do you have to pay for their protection?”

  “A fair price for peace,” replies Solinus. “Truly, we could do with some of them around here. My transports have been attacked twice this year already on their way to Londin — both times past the Crossroads.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” says Wortimer, adopting a conciliatory tone. “I will let my father know; he will recompense you with interest.”

  Solinus waves his hand. “Acceptable losses. I would rather raise the matter of bridge maintenance with your father. The fees have risen again — and yet the bridge on Loudborne is crumbling!”

  From then on, the discussion focuses solely on matters of trade and finance. I try to listen at first, but I soon grow bored.

  “Is this all the adults ever talk about?” I ask Fastidius. Unlike me, he’s been at such banquets before. “Money and gossip?”

  “Most of the time.” He reaches for a fried mushroom. “At least while they’re sober. When they drink more wine, they start reminiscing of old times.”

  I prick my ears. Will they talk of war? I glance at Fulco — the Frank stands guard at the far side of our couch, in the place reserved for the host’s servant. For now, he’s enjoying playing a slave, but I’m hoping he’ll join in with the tales of his exploits later. I look further around the room, and notice Wortimer is just as disinterested in the conversation as I am. He picks his teeth with a fruit knife and stares back at me. I can’t figure out the meaning behind that stare.

  A blare of horns interrupts another discussion of bridge tariffs. The kitchen door opens and, while one set of servants cleans up the table, four others enter carrying a cedarwood board, on top of which is an enormous boar, roasted whole, glazed in honey and spices. The guests erupt in applause.

  “Where did you find such a magnificent animal?” asks Wortimer. This is the first time I see him genuinely impressed. “Andreda?”

  “Actually, it’s from the local woods,” replies Master Pascent. “They’ve been coming close to the property lately. Fulco caught this one himself.”

  The applause repeats, this time directed at the Frank. He bows with a satisfied smile, then hands his long hunting knife to the Master. “The very blade that finished the beast,” the Master comments as he plunges the knife into the flesh. “As was the custom.”

  For a while, the room is filled only with the sounds of chewing, slurping and burping, as the boar carcass is slowly reduced to a skeleton. The meat is dry and tough, but it goes well with the sour wine, and by the time the meal is finished, everyone’s mood is greatly improved. I don’t even notice when the meat board disappears, replaced by a cake of honey and nuts and bowls of fresh fruit from the villa’s orchard.

  As Wortimer rises on one elbow, with a goblet in his hand, the room falls silent.

  “I believe it is time for gifts to our gracious host,” he announces. “Who wants to go first?”

  “Allow me,” says Solinus. He nods at the servants. They bring in new trays of food,
a small plate for each of us, with strips of some light-coloured meat, broiled and doused in a brown sauce. Master Pascent’s face brightens in joyous recognition.

  “Gallic fowl!”

  “From a friend in Aquitania,” says Solinus.

  I take a bite of mine. It’s softer than the most tender pheasant chick, almost sweet; saliva fills my mouth as I devour it in a couple of gulps.

  “You wouldn’t remember it, boy,” Master Pascent turns to his son. “But we’d eat it every day in Gaul — they were as common as geese back then. Now they’re worth their weight in gold.”

  “And would be even more expensive if not for the protection of our southern sea routes by the Saxons,” remarks Solinus.

  “Yes, yes, we’ve heard enough of your precious Saxons,” Wortimer interrupts him with an impatient scowl. “It’s my turn now. Here’s a gift from my father and the entire court.”

  He sets the goblet down and claps. One by one, the bronze braziers light up in the garden outside. The sound of lutes and pipes fills the air. A group of young, bronze-skinned women, dressed only in thin loincloths and chest wraps, skips into the light. They perform a series of leaps, tumbles and other acrobatics, showing off their athletic prowess and their taut, supple bodies. Sweat and oil glisten in the brazier flames, augmenting every curve of flesh and every twist of tendons. Paulinus and the Vicar General observe this with uneasy frowns, but others cheer and whoop at the display. Fastidius pretends not to be taken in by the show, but I can see his eyes drawn to the brazen nakedness of the dancers. The sensuous way they twist and flip around each other reminds me of the images from the secret book in Master Pascent’s study…

  “I didn’t know one could still see such treasures in this day and age,” says Solinus, licking his dried lips.

  “We found them on a slave ship washed out near Coln,” replies Wortimer. “The storms must have brought it here from Iberia, or even further… God alone knows how they survived the journey.”

  “God had nothing to do with it,” murmurs the Vicar General.

  “Shouldn’t we try to return them to the owners?” I ask.

  Wortimer gives me a mocking, piercing glance. Others politely stifle their chuckles.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you all evening, Master Pascent,” he replies, looking past me, “I know Master Solinus here is fond of his Saxon friends, but I never took you for a lover of pagans. What kind of a joke are you playing on us having this Saxon slaveling at the table? Is that some other obscure ancient custom I’m not familiar with?”

  Fastidius grows red, his fists clench. Master Pascent, however, remains calm.

  “It is my wife’s whim to treat the boy as if he was our own,” he replies. “You will allow the old man this indulgence on his birthday, I hope.”

  “Father!” Fastidius protests, “Ash is more than just —”

  The Master lays a hand on his shoulder. “You must be tired, son,” he says. “Perhaps you want to go back to your room, to study? Take Ash with you.”

  Fastidius tries to protest again, but the Master’s eyes lose their patient warmth. “Son. Take Ash with you,” he repeats.

  “So, the whelp’s name is Ash,” remarks Wortimer. “How positively barbaric. Do tell us more, Master.”

  “Now, now, good lords,” I hear the Vicar General plead as Fastidius and I leave the dining room, “the night is young. There are more gifts to present to our host, and more tales to regale ourselves with.”

  “Not fair,” I remark to Fastidius. “They’re about to talk of the battles.”

  He stops in the corridor and punches the wall. “Father shouldn’t let him call you like this.”

  “But it’s true. I am just a Seaborn orphan, a Saxon slaveling.”

  “Not to me you’re not. And not to Mother. She’ll hear about this.” He heads for the women’s room, but I stop him.

  “Wait. It doesn’t matter. I know Master Pascent didn’t mean it. I’m sure he had his reasons to say it like that. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, now that we’re finally alone.”

  “Something else?”

  As I gather the courage to speak, he grabs a pear from a passing servant’s tray and bites into it. He spits it out and looks at it in disgust.

  “It’s rotten inside.”

  “It’s about Eadgith,” I say at last.

  He frowns. “What about her?”

  “What is she to you?”

  I hear singing coming from the dining hall — Master Pascent’s and Fulco’s voices leading the others in a drunken rendition of some old martial ditty.

  “A friend,” Fastidius replies after a long pause. “A good friend.”

  “Is that all?”

  He sighs. “I know what you mean… It’s not the answer she’d want.”

  “It might be the answer I want.”

  His eyes grow wide open. “You?” He laughs. “Oh, I see!” His hands land on my shoulders. “Ash. You have nothing to worry about from me. If you want to capture Eadgith’s heart, you’re more than welcome to try.”

  I don’t understand. “But… why? I know you desired her as much as I or Gleva do. And she always preferred you out of all of us. I was certain you two would be together… what’s changed? Is it because you’re leaving for Londin?”

  “In a way.” He leans against the wall. “It’s not where I’m going that matters… It’s what I’m going to do there. Next year I’m going to be ordained as a priest. I’m already a novice.”

  This doesn’t surprise me — it’s always been obvious what career path he’d choose.

  “So?”

  “A novice must… restrain himself from the temptation. All temptation.”

  “You mean…” I reel from the revelation. “So that’s why I’ve never seen Paulinus with a woman…!”

  “Oh, he’s had plenty, in his young days. Now he simply no longer cares for these things.”

  “While you won’t even get the chance to try.”

  “God does not require this sacrifice from everyone. Only his most faithful servants. It is an ideal to which one should strive — and if I start early, I will not know what I’m missing.”

  “It’s — not natural.” My head hurts. I don’t understand, I refuse to understand. He may have accepted his fate — his face remains as tranquil as ever — but I cannot. “Does Eadgith know?”

  Now, at last, emotion appears in his face, a glimmer of pain and shame. “She… suspects.”

  “You have to tell her.”

  “I lack the courage. I was hoping I’d leave before she realises…”

  “A year is a long time. I can’t wait that long. If you don’t tell her, I will.”

  “Fine.” He nods. His eyes glint with gathering tears. “I’ll do it.”

  He reaches out and holds me in a tight embrace. “I’m glad Mother took you in, Ash. You’ve never been just a slaveling. You’re a part of this family. Never forget this.”

  Cut. Slide. Shave. Cut. Slide. Shave.

  The curled wood shavings fall twirling to the ground like ash seeds. Once the point of the shaft is tapered to the desired thickness, I reach into the sack and pick an arrowhead. I dip the tip of the shaft into a pot of bubbling pine sap and push the arrowhead on, then put it aside to let the resin cool down and bind the metal to the wood.

  I’ve already prepared a dozen missiles. It’s a monotonous job, but a relaxing one, perfect for the lazy hot afternoon, and perfect to calm my buzzing mind. For the duration, I think of nothing else than the width of the nock, the position of the fletching grooves, the occasional stirring of the sap to stop it from setting.

  The sun has climbed high in the sky. The tree I sit under gives little shade, and the coals under the sap pot add to the heat. I’m stripped to the waist, but I’m still covered in sweat. The next arrowhead slips from my fingers and lands in the sand. I reach to a pail of cold water at my side, soak a piece of cloth and wipe my hands and face. I sit up and pause.

 
Eadgith is walking across the yard, with an empty herbs basket under her arm. She’s clad in a simple long gown of white linen, finely spun, almost translucent. It’s laced loosely in front, and when she turns to me, I see she’s wearing nothing underneath. Her red hair is tied and hidden under a veil she’s recently started to wear. As she approaches, I notice her eyes are red and puffy.

  She sits down beside me in silence and puts the basket on the grass. I say nothing; my heart is beating like mad.

  “You’re making arrows,” she remarks and sniffs.

  “I’m only putting everything together,” I explain. My voice does not sound as strong and manly as I’d wish. “Map’s father made the shafts. The heads are from your father’s shop.”

  “What are they for? Deer hunting?”

  “Nothing as big as that. Just squirrels and rabbits, if I can hit one. I’ve been going hunting with Fulco, but he still won’t let me shoot the big bow.”

  “I see.”

  She sniffs again. I offer her the wet cloth, and she wipes her nose.

  “You’re going herb picking?” I ask, though the answer is as obvious as my fletching.

  She nods. “I need some alehoof for my mother’s cough. There’s some growing by the grain mill.”

  The grain mill… The memory of her bathing in the mill stream is as clear in my mind as it was on the day I saw her. I look away, feeling my face redden.

  “Ash, why would God want me to suffer?” she asks.

  I have no answer of my own, at least none that she’d want to hear. So I just repeat what Father Paulinus always tells me in moments of doubt.

  “It’s all part of a greater, mysterious plan.”

  “What possible plan could involve me falling for the only boy I can’t have…?”

  I swallow and think very carefully before formulating the answer. “Perhaps… perhaps God wants you to realise Fastidius is not the only boy you could fall for…”

  She scoffs, but her scoff turns into a smile. “That’s sweet, Ash, but…” She shakes her head and stands up. As she picks up the herbs basket, her hand brushes my bare arm, sending a shiver through my entire body.