The Saxon Spears Page 8

  “What?” I rise from the stool. Something’s buzzing in my head. “Why in hell not?”

  “Do not swear in my presence, son.”

  Paulinus stands up as well. He does not tower over me as much as he used to, but the way his arms and chest bulk up his robe still remind me he was a trained soldier before becoming a man of cloth.

  “You can’t marry a serf’s daughter. It’s simple as that.”

  “Is it because I’m a slaveling, and she’s a freed woman?”

  “It’s exactly the opposite.” He sighs and rubs his brow. “I thought you understood.”

  “Well, I clearly don’t.”

  He gestures to the bookshelf. “Why do you think Pascent asked me to fill your head with all this knowledge?” he asks. “Why do you think he has Fulco training you in warfare? Haven’t you ever wondered what he’s been preparing you for? You’re not just a slaveling, you never were.”

  “Then why hasn’t he freed me yet?”

  “It’s… not that simple. There’s politics involved. Everybody in Londin knows about you, especially after the birthday banquet. You’re a Saxon, and right now… is not a good moment for a courtier at Wortigern’s court to associate himself with Saxons. But soon, you’ll be an asset.”

  “An asset?”

  “A Saxon child, raised in a Roman house… Learned in classics, trained in both barbarian and civilised warfare. Believe me, one day, this island will belong to the likes of you. You just need to wait for the right moment.”

  “I don’t care about any of this.” I throw the stylus on the desk. “If it means I can’t be with Eadgith!”

  “Oh, you can lie with her as much as you want.” He waves his hand. “Or at least until Pascent finds you a proper wife.”

  “I don’t want any other wife.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, boy!” he booms. “He is your Master.”

  “You said I wasn’t a slave!”

  “This is still his house. You will still need his permission. And mine. Or did you forget, you need a priest for marriage?”

  “I’ll find another one. We’ll go to Saffron Valley, or — or Londin, if need be.”

  “No priest in Britannia will defy the will of a Councillor at Wortigern’s court.”

  “Then we will live in sin! God will forgive us!”

  I rush for the exit. Paulinus reaches his arm across the door.

  “I know this is only your youth speaking. I will not hold it against you. Just think about what I told you, when your head cools down.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Ash!”

  I duck under his arm and run out of the house, to our secret meeting place by the bath house. Eadgith moves to greet me, but takes one look at me and knows I don’t want to hear any more words, from anyone, not even her. We stay silent as we enter the darkness inside the tepidarium, and I enter the darkness inside her.

  The javelin cuts through the air and splits the timber target. If it was a shield, the man holding it would be skewered through the chest.

  Fulco claps. “Good, good! You’ve been practising.”

  I prop myself with one foot and pull the javelin out. “I like it better than the throwing axe.”

  “It goes further, but you can’t bounce it,” he replies. “Or use it as a hand weapon in a pinch.”

  “I will have my sword for that.”

  “A sword, eh? That’s ambitious.”

  “I thought all Saxons carry swords. Isn’t that where they got their name from?”

  I hand Fulco the javelin. He examines the tip, and bends the shaft to check for cracks. “Only the members of the chieftain’s household, the Hiréd. They are the ones who wear mail armour and helmets, and get to wield swords and ironbound shields. Everyone else has to make do with spears, axes and maces. At least that’s how it used to be in my days.”

  “Well then, I guess I’ll have to join a chieftain’s household!” I announce.

  I try to sound frivolous, but my heart hangs heavy. I put all the training weapons together and tie them up in a bundle with a leather cord. I put on the grey cloth cloak. My body might be steaming from the long effort, but it’s the coldest day in a long while. I lean on a spear and take a deep breath: the air freezes on the thin trace of hair over my upper lip and cheeks.

  Fulco chuckles.

  “What is it?”

  “In that cloak you look like young Wodan.”

  “Wodan.” I remember the name from Paulinus’s lesson. “You mean the wandering god?”

  He grows serious. “Forget I said that.”

  “No, wait.” I step closer and lean forwards. I take a deep breath. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Teach me of the gods of my people.”

  He embraces me, until his mouth is next to my ear. “Why the sudden change of mind?” he whispers.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I need to know you’re serious. Paulinus tolerates my sins, but he will not accept me leading you astray. If we’re caught, we’ll both get punished — but my punishment will be much harsher.”

  I gulp. When I first came up with the idea, I just wanted to spite Paulinus. Then I began to wonder if maybe the gods of the Saxons could help me where the God of Romans could not. But I know this isn’t the answer Fulco is looking for. The gods are not our playthings, to demand favours from. Like Paulinus, Falco will not have time for the love whims of a boy.

  “I… I want to become a man.”

  I feel Fulco nod. He steps back and picks up the weapons. He makes them seem as light as a bundle of firewood.

  “Meet me at the round oak grove across the river in three days, after cena,” he says. “I’ll have something to show you.”

  Fulco waits for me in the shadow of the whitewashed, high-roofed sometime-chapel at the edge of the burial ground, with a filled sack thrown over his shoulder. He leads me to the southern end of the building. Several large boulders are piled loosely against the wall. I help him remove them, revealing a trap door leading to a cellar.

  Once inside, he closes the trap door, locking us in a pitch, stuffy darkness. A shadow of primeval fear grips me until, a crack of fire-steel later, a torch on the wall lights up with an oily flame.

  A fire pit in the floor under the eastern wall catches my attention first. It’s lined with flat stones and filled with burnt coals mixed with charred bone. A narrow opening in the ceiling serves to lead the smoke away from the cellar, but judging by the permeating, heavy odour of soot and burnt meat, it does not do its job well. A set of butchery tools and a couple of skinned rabbits hang on the wall above the pit. Fulco takes the torch from its holder and approaches the wall behind me. He pulls down a plaid blanket from a nail, revealing a faint chalk outline of a runic inscription and a crude drawing: the vertical line split in two at the end, like the Roman letter Y he once showed me in the sand, surrounded by nine circles.

  I know what this line is now. For the past couple of weeks, Fulco and I have been meeting among the mighty gnarled trunks of the ancient oaks, growing in a tight circle on the southern shore of Loudborne, shielded off from the rest of the property by a wall of thick bramble through which the Frank knew the only safe passage. There, he has been patiently and secretly introducing me to the fundamentals of his — and my — ancestors’ faith, as well as he can.

  The split line is what Tacitus in his Germanic Peoples calls the ‘Pillar of Hercules’. But he’s as wrong about it as about most things regarding the Germans; it has nothing to do with any Roman or Greek heroes. This is the Pillar of Ermun, the sacred tree that supports the Nine Homelands, where the gods, humans and demons dwell. According to Fulco, it stands somewhere deep in the Saxon lands, surrounded by a sacred grove not unlike the one where we’ve been meeting.

  “What is this place?” I ask. All this time, I had no inkling there was anything like this under the old chapel. I sense that it is some new step in my initiation into the mysteries of the old gods, him bringing me here, showi
ng me this strange cellar. It certainly feels mysterious enough…

  “The Britons worshipped their underground deities here, before the Romans came. Then the Roman soldiers turned it into a sanctuary to their god, the one who dwells in caves. Now — it’s ours.”

  “You did all this yourself?”

  “I had help,” he replies. “You’re not the only one in the villa who comes with me to the oaks. In fact, we are growing in numbers.”

  “Who else?” For a moment, I hope he means Eadgith, but he shakes his head.

  “I cannot tell you more. None of them know about each other. It’s safer that way. Paulinus would have them all flogged, if he knew. Or worse,” he adds, grimly.

  He puts the torch to the fire pit. The coals, drenched in animal fat, ignite in an instant. He throws a bunch of dry firewood to stoke the flame.

  “Won’t somebody notice the fire?” I ask, pointing to the ceiling hole.

  “Everyone knows I’m using this place as a smokery.” He nods at the rabbits. “Nobody suspects anything.”

  The black smoke soon fills the room. I cough. Even the old woman’s hut had better ventilation than this cellar. I complain of a headache.

  “Good,” says Fulco. “That’s your mind opening to the gods.”

  “I think it’s just the smoke.”

  He chuckles. “Maybe. But Father Paulinus fills the prayer hall above us with incense and candle flame for the very same purpose. We can’t both be wrong, can we?”

  He unties the sack and pulls out four bits of wood, each about a foot in length, carved in runes. Something moves and squeals in the sack as he does so. I feel another bout of dread coming. Is there a demon in the bag…?

  “Now, remember, boy, I’m not a priest,” says Fulco, as he tends to whenever he introduces me to some new knowledge. He adds more fuel to the pit. “I just recall some of the rituals from my youth. One day you might meet a true Saxon seer, and he will laugh at all of this, but it’s the best I can offer.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  The flames roar and crackle, reaching almost to the ceiling. I step back from the fire pit, but Fulco pushes me forward. “No, you must face the sacred flame. Let it temper your soul.”

  He takes the four pieces of wood, and throws them into the fire one by one, reciting a line with each throw, more for my benefit than his, helping me to engrain the names of the gods in my memory:

  “Yew for Tiw, the Lawgiver, judge of war, he who dispenses glory.”

  “Oak for Donar, the Hammer-wielder, the protector, master of cloud and thunder.”

  “Elder for Frige, the Weaver, the all-knowing, lady of the meadow.”

  The names are among the first I learned from the Frank, those of the lords and ladies of the Ensi, the high kings of heaven; but there is a host of others, a whole pantheon, not dissimilar to all the saints and apostles of the Romans Paulinus has me remember.

  Fulco pauses before throwing the last one, and looks at me. “And ash for Wodan, the Wanderer, the all-father, lord of the Mead Hall.”

  Ash. I shiver. The combination of hearing my name in the incantation, the heat, and the heavy smoke is beginning to work its magic. Awe fills my soul, crawls from the tips of my toes to my head, the same awe I felt all those years ago when I first saw Father Paulinus.

  Are the gods really with us, now, in this damp cellar? It is easy to believe. I think I can even sense a presence… there’s something else here than just the two of us, I’m certain of it. Some living thing, some mysterious creature, hidden…

  Fulco reaches into the sack and pulls out a wild piglet, squealing and thrashing in his grip.

  “Hand me that knife,” he says, pointing to the wall. It’s a long Saxon blade, old and chipped, marked with runes along the spine. “It’s the last of the sounder of that great hog I slew for the birthday feast. A fitting sacrifice.”

  He mutters an incantation in a language I don’t understand, then draws the blade under the piglet’s throat in one smooth move. The animal lets out a horrifying shriek. Blood spurts in a crimson fountain, splattering the flame, Fulco’s arm, the wall, and me. I stand fast as the blood drips down my face. The piglet stops moving. Fulco drops it into the fire. The flames consume the fat carcass eagerly.

  He reaches out. “Now, give me your rune stone.”

  I snap the cord and hand him the jewel. I’ve been wearing the stone all my life, even to the bath — even when lying with Eadgith — and suddenly I feel naked without it. Fulco holds it in a clutched fist, whispers something into his hand, then throws the stone into the flaming pit.

  “No!” I gasp and instinctively try to reach for it, but the fire only scorches my fingers. Fulco’s hand rests heavy on my shoulder.

  “I call on Wodan and all the gods in all the nine worlds,” he booms. “To let them know that this boy, Ash, is now a man, and no longer requires your protection in this life. His fate, such as it is, is now his own!”

  He pushes me to my knees, and kneels himself before the roaring flame.

  “They say a true seer could perceive the future in these flames, if it pleased the gods,” Fulco whispers. “Now personally, I never — ”

  The flames crackle and burst in an explosion of sparks. The entire chamber brightens with a blinding light for a moment, then the dark smoke surges forth from the fire and consumes all, until I can see neither the burning pig, Fulco, nor the walls of the underground chamber.

  In the darkness, the brighter wisps of smoke become images; visions. The first are those of my memories: the beach, the dark, roaring sea, the old man dying in the hypocaust… Then it’s the mock battles, and the feasts, and Eadgith, heaving under my touch. But the next image is one I don’t recognise: a bloodied blade in my hand; a battle, a real one this time, with scores of dead on either side; another pale-fleshed woman under me, her face obscured by mist; more dead, more blood, more fire, more women — and me among all this, fighting, running, screaming, loving… and leading men into battle, spear in my hand.

  One last vision: an old, bearded, one-eyed man looms over me — and sets a bejewelled silver diadem on my head. He speaks, but his words are lost in the swirling smoke. I succumb wholly to the awe of the divine, and my senses finally give way. The world spins around me and goes dark.

  I wake up spluttering and spitting, with the taste of warm ale on my tongue. Fulco stands above me, pouring the ale all over me even as I wave my hands and try to tell him to stop, until the clay pitcher is empty. He then smashes it on the floor.

  “Is this also a part of the ritual?” I ask, wiping my face.

  “The beer was sacred. The pouring of it on you wasn’t.” He laughs. “But that’s alright. You needed the blood washed from you. I’m sure the gods won’t mind us this little transgression.”

  The room is dark again, illuminated only by the silvery light of dusk coming through the open trap door. The smoke clears, and so does my head. I start remembering the details of what had just occurred.

  “Have you seen it, too?”

  “Seen what?” He studies my face. “What did you see?”

  “I… I’m not sure…” I tell him what little I remember from the images in the smoke. I omit the final vision — it feels too personal. His expression darkens.

  “I cannot tell you what this means — you need a seer to interpret visions… Other than what you should already know yourself, you are destined to take part in great events of this land. Perhaps even lead them.”

  “Me? What do you mean? I’m just a slave.” I laugh, nervously, remembering the quarrel with Father Paulinus.

  “You are much more than that,” he replies. “Your rune stone… It’s not something every Saxon child receives. It is a sign of nobility. Master Pascent knew what he was doing when he took you from that market.”

  Is this what Paulinus meant? Is this what makes me the asset he talked about? Do they imagine I’m some Saxon prince, whose lineage could one day be used for some secret scheme of their devis
ing?

  “My rune stone!” I reach for my neck. “What have you done with it?”

  “You can dig it out of the ash if you want to — but that wouldn’t be the right thing to do. It was a protection amulet, given to noble children at birth. You were only supposed to carry it until adulthood.”

  “It was all I had to remember my parents…”

  “And have you forgotten them?”

  I close my eyes, and in that instant I’m transported back to the narrow ship in the middle of the heaving ocean, the man with the strong hand, the woman with golden braids… I reel from the vision and shake my head.

  “It had to be done,” says Fulco. “If you wanted the gods to know you’re a man. Now Wodan has accepted this sacrifice and prepared a seat for you in the Hall of the Slain.”

  Wodan… For some reason, the image of the one-eyed, bearded man flashes in my head.

  “Hall of the Slain?”

  “It’s Wodan’s palace, where the heroes dwell. His Mead Hall, a place of eternal feasting. If you die in battle, that’s where his maidens, the Waelkyrge, will take your spirit.” He helps me up from the floor. “Dying a warrior’s death is what all real men should wish for.”

  “Then neither Fastidius nor Paulinus are real men,” I note. “For I’m sure they both wish to live long and die in peace.”

  He smirks. “And I’m sure their God will gladly welcome them to His house when that happens. Wodan’s Hall would get crowded real soon if the whole world wanted to rest there.”

  We climb outside. The air is crisp, and the stars are already out in full. I breathe in, and feel a great calmness descend upon me. Fulco locks the trap door and I help him pile the boulders back up.

  “Is that it, then?” I ask. “Am I a man now?”

  “In the eyes of the gods, yes,” he replies. “There is just one thing left to do. But I’ll need a couple more days to arrange it. I’ll let you know when everything’s ready. And remember — tell no one what you’ve seen today.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE LAY OF WELAND

  I lie with my head between Eadgith’s white breasts, my ear to her chest, listening to her calm heartbeat. She is swathed in that warm pale glow her body always exudes after our joining. The heat slowly evaporates from our tired muscles, and goose bumps appear on her skin. She breathes gently, letting out a soft moan only when my roaming fingers touch her soft place.