The Saxon Spears Page 7

  Upon reaching the edge of the forest, she turns around and looks at me for a long while, twirling a tress of hair in her fingers, as if assessing me. She smiles again and disappears among the willows.

  I follow her along the river bank, stomping the kingcups and treading on fragrant ramsons. I don’t know why, or what I’m going to do once I find her. My mind creates theories and scenarios, each more convoluted than the other. Back then at the grain mill, she said “not yet” — what did she mean by that? When will “yet” come? And now — what was that strange, long look all about? Was her touching me a mere accident, or a signal? And what if I’m wrong about everything… What if she’s still mourning Fastidius’s decision, and doesn’t want to be disturbed? Can my heart take another rejection?

  I’m so worked up about all the many possibilities that I don’t notice when I lose her trail. Everywhere I look spreads the same thick carpet of lush-green ramsons, pumping their heady odour into the forest air. Then I remember: the grain mill. It doesn’t matter what route Eadgith took to cut through the bend of the Loudborne, all I have to do is go back to the river and follow the current downstream.

  The pause helps cool my head and slow down my galloping thoughts. I will be strong. If she rejects me firmly, so be it. If she hints at another chance, I’ll have to try some other time. And if she…

  I hear a high-pitched cry, followed by loud grunts. I rush in the direction of the noise. I leap over fallen trees and ditches; the brambles tear at my skin. Eadgith cries again, closer this time. I call her name. I glimpse her white gown through the yews. She’s running towards me. The grunting and snorting approaches swiftly. She trips and falls, but I’m already with her. I look to the noise, and pull the knife from the sheath at my thigh.

  As wild boars go, this one is small. Grown enough not to have a sow around, thank God, but still only about half the adult size. Must be a young one of the beast slain for the birthday feast. Still, it weighs easily as much as me, and already sports the tusks, razor sharp and deadly if they find a vital spot.

  Eadgith stands up behind me. I know that if she had a weapon, and was wearing her battle clothes instead of that constraining gown, she wouldn’t have been so helpless against the animal; but for now, I get to play the hero. My knife-hand is slippery with sweat. The boar stares at me, hesitant. It was panicked before, but now it’s calming down. This is when it’s at its most dangerous — it can plan an attack, rather than storm ahead in a blind, aimless fury.

  I roar, stomp and spread my arms. It will either scare the beast off, or provoke it. Both are fine with me. The boar chooses to charge, a stiff legged trot at first, soon switching to a gallop. As it approaches, my resolve weakens for a moment. This is a big, feral animal, not some sedate livestock… Can I really defeat it? But it’s too late for doubts. My muscles tense of their own accord, in memory of Fulco’s lessons; I’ve only practised on pigs and with wooden weapons, and I have to hope it’s enough.

  I lunge sideways. One of the tusks tears the skin at my calf. I thrust the knife between the front legs and let the beast’s momentum guide the blade through the vitals. The boar yelps and leaps forwards, tearing the knife from my hand. The weapon flies into the ramsons. Eadgith jumps out of the way, stumbles on the hem of her gown, falls. The boar turns. It sways its head from side to side, choosing its target. I yell at it again, and the beast runs at me. I kneel on one knee and search for the knife in desperation, but I find nothing. I pick up an oak branch instead and hold it forwards like a spear. The boar suddenly swerves to the left and strikes me from the side. We both tumble. I feel my leg torn again, deeper this time. I strike with the branch until it breaks, but I can’t penetrate the skin. The boar is faster on its feet than I am. I see its gleaming tusks right before my eyes.

  A flash of steel. The beast lets out a tremendous squeal, followed by gurgling grunts, and falls on its flank, its legs thrashing. Eadgith pulls out the knife and stabs again, and again, until I stop her hand.

  “It’s dead,” I say.

  She slides off the animal. Her clothes, her hands, all are covered in dark, red, sticky blood. So are mine. The mist of the battle rush clears from her eyes.

  “You’re wounded,” she says.

  I check the cut. The tusks have missed all the vital points. I’ve had worse injuries in mock fights with Fulco. “I’ll be fine.”

  I kneel beside her. Blood is still pumping in my ears. We both breathe hard and fast. I see her gown is torn on the side, the laces on her chest snapped. I grow rock hard. She notices my lust, and makes the first move. She pins me to the ground. Her hips grind against my crotch, her lips press to mine. I lose all control and as the light explodes in my head, so does my manhood in her grasp.

  I’m too inexperienced to be embarrassed, and she’s too hungry for me to pay attention. Our lips still locked, our limbs tied together, we roll away from the dead beast. I tear her blood-soaked gown off and pause to admire all of the glory spread before me, glory that I have waited for so long to possess. I grow hard again, and this time, we take things slowly.

  I forget all about Elephantis and her lewd poems. This is the real thing, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever read or dreamt about. It is at once more simple and more divine than anything I’ve imagined. She pulls me in and I lose myself in the pink softness and in the moment of our joining I cry out to God, thanking him for creating Eadgith and for all His mysterious plans.

  CHAPTER V

  THE LAY OF FULCO

  I hear it first, before I see it: the shaft flutters through the air and the blade hacks unfailingly into the target with a satisfying crunch.

  Half a dozen cabbage heads rest on top of an old crumbling wall, marking what must have once been the eastern border of the villa. Stuck in one of the cabbages, splitting it almost in two, is a weapon I haven’t seen before: a small, slender iron axe set on a slightly curved oaken shaft. Fulco waits for me to bring the weapon to him. It’s heavier than I expected, well weighted towards the blade, which curves upwards and ends with a pointy spike.

  “What is this?”

  “A weapon of my people. The Romans would call it a francisca,” he replies. “At least those who encountered it and lived to tell the tale. I just call it what it is — a throwing axe.”

  There’s another of the weapons lying at his feet. He picks it up and begins to whet the blades against each other.

  “I see you’re fond of axes.”

  “Nothing quite like it when you’re out on a campaign, boy. A sword is great, if you can afford it — and have access to a good bladesmith to repair it. But any village blacksmith knows how to make an axe head, and then you just need to find a sturdy enough stick, and —”

  He throws the francisca again and another cabbage head is destroyed in the blink of an eye. This time, he goes to pick it up himself.

  “You can’t do that with a sword,” he says. “Many a skull was split by these two beauties, back in the day.”

  He hands me back the weapon. I glimpse my reflection in the polished blade. I run my finger against the sharp edge in admiration, and then I remember.

  “Christian skulls.”

  Fulco shrugs. He unties the ribbon binding his long black hair in a tight bob and lets it fall to his shoulders. He’s the only adult man in the villa to wear his hair like this.

  “Christian, pagan, there’s no difference to the blade. They all die the same, no matter where they’re going after that.”

  “Then the rumours are true. You don’t believe in God.”

  He scoffs, and I note to myself that it’s probably best not to irritate a man twice my size, holding a foot-long flying axe as if it was a whittling knife.

  “Which God?” he asks, flipping the weapon in his hand.

  “There is only one.”

  “Ah, but is there?”

  I glance around nervously. This isn’t the kind of thing I’d like anyone to hear me discuss.

  “Calm down, boy. Paulinus and Pascent know
all about it.”

  He looks up to the sky, at a buzzard flying through a gap in the clouds.

  “See, here’s what I think happened.” He crouches and draws the sign of the cross in the sand with the pointy end of the blade. “God appeared to the Romans as a shepherd in the desert, right?”

  That’s not strictly true, but I’m reminded of the axe in his hand and nod in agreement.

  “And that’s fair. That’s what they’re familiar with. But what would a desert shepherd be doing in the North, where you and I come from? Wouldn’t it make more sense for God to appear in the guise of a wise wanderer, clad in a grey woollen cloak, thick enough to withstand our winters?” He draws another sign beside the cross, one that resembles a Greek upsilon. “He even got himself stuck on a tree, like that Jesus. An ash tree, no less.” He winks at me.

  I have never heard about these pagan beliefs before, not in any sort of detail. I yearn to hear more, but I fear of what might happen to me — to my mortal soul — if I do.

  “And is that what you believe?”

  He stands up and juggles the axe in the air. “Eh. I was raised to believe in one bunch of gods, then was told to worship another. I saw people die and kill for believing in both. Now I don’t know which one to follow. I pray to the Roman God out of respect to Adelheid and her husband… but I also worship the gods of the Franks, out of respect to my ancestors.”

  His explanation makes a surprising amount of sense to me. I realise I have no answer — and, I guess, neither did Paulinus when confronted with Fulco’s peculiar brand of philosophy, since he resigned himself to allow the Frank to continue his practices.

  “I wish I knew what my ancestors believed in…” I say quietly.

  He rubs my hair. “Oh, I’m sure I can help you with that. Franks, Saxons, Alemanns — we were all neighbours once, we all share the same gods, under different names.”

  I look up, wondering if he realises how exciting this new information sounds to my ears. At last, a chance to learn something — anything, beyond faint glimpses of the past — about my ancestors, maybe about my real family… How much does he really know — and how much of it is relevant to me and my people?

  “Just let me know when you wish to talk about it. We’ll find a more…” He lowers his voice and glances around. “… suitable place.”

  The glance makes me uneasy. It’s one thing to discuss Fulco’s personal beliefs — and, possibly, those of my fellow tribesmen — but having him introduce me to some pagan demon worship, in secret, sounds ominous, if not outright dangerous. The terror of demons instilled in me by Paulinus since childhood overcomes my curiosity. I step back.

  “I — I’ll think about it.”

  He laughs.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about this conversation. Not even Paulinus.”

  The axe flies again, shaves an inch off a cabbage and lands in the tall grass beyond the wall. Fulco sighs. I run to fetch the weapon.

  “Speaking of rumours,” he says when I return, “I heard you’ve finally made the first step towards becoming a man.”

  I blush, not with shame, but with wounded pride. “I have become a man.”

  “It takes a bit more than just lying with a woman.”

  “A girl,” I correct him.

  “She let you inside her. That makes her a woman.”

  “And it doesn’t make me a man?”

  He scoffs. “Any boy can fit a peg into a hole. But, don’t feel too bad about it. Some of us never grow up to be men.” He hands me the axe and points at the cabbages. “Here. Let’s see what a boy can do.”

  Suddenly, the weapon feels heavy in my hands.

  Steam rises from Paulinus’s cup in a thick wisp, pushed low by the gust of cold wind blowing through the cracked window. The heady aroma of the herbal brew tickles my nose. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s distracting me from my work.

  My hand moves smoothly across the wax tablet, pausing only when I encounter a long new word. I can read the formal letters fluently now, and I’m making progress in decoding handwriting of others, although Paulinus’s scribbles remain a mystery to me. I think he writes deliberately bad, so that nobody can decipher his thoughts without his consent.

  We’re still reading Tacitus, but we’ve moved on from his lives of famous men and histories of the early Rome, to a book titled The Origin and Situation of the Germanic People. The Germans, Paulinus explains, is the word Romans used for all the nations that lived on the eastern side of the Rhenum — including the Saxons. Initially, I’m excited by the opportunity of learning something about the land I was born in from a real scholar, rather than an illiterate Frank bodyguard, until Paulinus points out that the work is hundreds of years old and most of the information is long outdated — if it was ever accurate in the first place.

  “It’s still a good exercise in reading and writing,” he remarks, wrapping his cloak tightly around him. “And who knows, you might discover something about the ancient history of your people. There’s some interesting information in Chapter Forty…”

  “I don’t understand why we have to learn about the history of the Saxons from some long-dead Roman.”

  He blows on the surface of the brew to cool it down and slurps a sip. “Because he was a diligent scholar, gathering and checking his sources in accordance with the principles laid down by the Ancients, from Herodotus onwards. And the sooner we finish with Tacitus, the sooner we can move to Ammianus.”

  “But he’s so often wrong,” I protest, and point to the beginning of the book. “Here, he says we all have blue eyes and red hair. That’s not true. Or that we’re strong, but tire quickly. This isn’t true either.”

  He sips the brew again and nods. “He had to be concise for the sake of his readers. The Romans did not care for detail. If more Germans had red hair than the Romans were used to, that would become their characteristics. And there weren’t many Germans around at the time to correct this assertion.”

  “Back then, yes, but now, couldn’t we just go to New Port and ask an actual Saxon?”

  Paulinus scoffs. “They know nothing. Talk to them if you wish. They will tell you they can trace the ancestry of their chieftains back for generations, until they reach Wodan, their chief god, but thanks to authors like Tacitus,” he says, tapping the leather-bound cover of the book, “we know none of that is true. They don’t come from gods, they come from tribes of barbarians, like the ones listed in Chapter Forty: ‘Aviones, Anglii, Eudoses’…”

  “But what if Tacitus is just as wrong in Chapter Forty as he is in Chapter Four?”

  He splutters the brew. “Mind your words, boy. Are you saying you believe the Saxons are descended from gods?”

  “Not gods, no,” I reply quickly, and cross myself just in case. “But maybe their forefathers bred with some demons in the past? The Romans in Tacitus’s times seemed to believe such things possible. Even the Holy Scriptures say —”

  “There’s not a drop of demonic blood in their veins,” he interrupts. “I should know. I’ve spilled enough of it.”

  The look in his eyes tells me to stop pursuing this line of enquiry. I return to the wax tablet, scratching vigorously to make up for the wasted time. Paulinus observes me for a while.

  “Slow down. You’ve made a mistake in the third line. And the fourth.”

  I rub out the error and write in the correct letters. I flip over the page, and as I do so, a small tear appears in the parchment, close to the binding. Paulinus hisses.

  “Careful! This is expensive! There’s no need to rush. You’re going to break the stylus again.”

  I mumble an apology and proceed more carefully for a while, before picking up the pace shortly after.

  “What’s wrong with you today, son? Why are you in such a hurry?”

  What can I answer? I can’t tell him the real reason I almost tore out a page from the valuable, ancient tome, and why the stylus is melting the wax on the tablet: Eadgith is waiting for me by the bath
house.

  The boiler still hasn’t been fixed, and there’s no word of when the craftsmen might arrive from Londin. Now that the days have grown cold, it has become a real problem. The Master and his family have their bathing water boiled in the kitchen, but for the rest of us it’s back to the Loudborne.

  In the meantime, however, the bath house remains empty and closed for everyone, except those who are friends with the staff, like myself and Eadgith. With its thick, isolated walls and cosy darkness, the tepidarium in particular is a perfect place for our secret encounters. Our entwined bodies produce enough heat to make us forget about the coming of winter.

  My hand trembles at the memory of our last meeting, and the stylus screeches against the wood underneath the wax. Paulinus winces.

  “Let me guess, is it some girl again?”

  “Not some girl. The girl.”

  “The same one? That’s impressive. How long has it been, three months now?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “You almost make it sound serious.”

  “It is serious.” I stop writing. I have to think very carefully about what comes out of my mouth next. I haven’t told this to anyone yet, not even Eadgith, but the plan has been budding in my heart for some weeks now. It is clear to me that we were made for each other. I can see no other way.

  “I want to wed her.”

  Paulinus’s concerned glare surprises me. I’m not prepared to defend my decision before him — I didn’t expect it would be necessary. There are a few boys my age on the property and in the villages who have already been betrothed, without much fuss. It seems an obvious next step to take in my relationship with Eadgith.

  “We’re talking about a girl from this villa?”

  “Yes. Eadgith, the bladesmith’s girl.”

  He shakes his head slowly, and finishes the brew in one sip.

  “I’m sorry, son, but I don’t think that will be possible.”