Clash of Kings (40 page)

In a crazed skein of shining and bloody-flecked iron, he swung both weapons at the enemy, fighting to reach Catigern and bring that laughing face down into the dust. He howled when Otha slashed Catigern’s steed across the belly, bringing the beast to its knees in a sickening spray of entrails and hot blood. Hengist would have pursued Catigern himself if one of his guard hadn’t firmly gripped his master’s shoulder just as the thane used his axe to block a wicked underhand blow aimed at his genitals.

‘Later, Lord Hengist! We must live, if we are to avenge Lord Horsa.’

Hengist’s brain cleared and he led the last of the Saxons out of the melee into an all-consuming run through the river shallows. As he glanced back, he saw Catigern hacking at his brother’s body and hate flooded his brain with a deadly, icy fury. His mind repeated a single refrain as he struggled into the deeper water to begin the swim to the far side. As he drove himself through the shallows on the far bank, he could see that a mere one hundred Saxon warriors remained unwounded.

Across the river, the Celts jeered, swore and shouted insults but Hengist turned his back, gathered his last war chiefs together and ordered the men to continue the run to safety.

‘To Rutupiae,’ he ordered with a voice that had no tremor in it. ‘But first, I require twenty volunteers amongst the thanes who will stay with me in that copse of trees over there. My brother has been killed shamefully and I will have blood price, or I’ll tear the Britons down to Udgaad to have my way. You, Otha, will lead the other warriors to the ceols and make ready to depart for our new home. But wait for us! I will come, or call for you, even if the Fenris Wolf and the dragon that guards Ygdrasil stands between me and Rutupiae. Now, run, you sons of whores. Run!’

A bloody day! Horsa would have laughed and called it a good day to die, but Horsa was dead and his body had been desecrated near the river among the carnage of the retreat. As a sullen night darkened a bloody western sun, Hengist swore that he would make the sky burn with Celtic blood.

But first, he must think. The Celts would come to him because they believed that he was helpless. He must lay his pride and his honour in the dust, and he would do it gladly, for only the blood of Catigern would permit him to stand in the sunshine, as a Saxon should.

Behind him, on the small and nameless hill, dark animal shadows flittered from one prone corpse to another. Foxes, wild dogs, wolves and other scavengers feasted on the exposed parts of Saxon flesh, for Vortimer left his enemies to rot. The corpse of Horsa was the only Saxon body retrieved, and the descrated parts were displayed like grisly trophies of Celtic superiority for the mirth of the Cantii peasantry.

Hengist’s mind flickered with the beginnings of an idea, but only the arrogance of his enemies could bring it to his chosen, bloody conclusion. If he was forced to act like a mongrel dog to obtain his revenge, then so be it. Honour was for the living – and Horsa was dead.

CHAPTER XVII

THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES

A moonless night was followed by a slate-coloured, chilly day, as a cold wind brought rain in grey sheets from the sea. Careless of personal comfort, the Saxon thanes had commandeered a ruined Roman villa where they slept on the tiled floors, wrapped in their thick homespun woollen cloaks. All were sunk in gloom, and only Hengist had possessed the curiosity to explore the traces of luxury that were still evident in the chipped paint, the marble columns and the remnants of gardens in the atrium. Old seed heads hung from withered stems in sad, ghostly clumps and nettles grew thickly around a dead linden tree. But the fountain still trickled clean water, indicating that the pipes were still intact, so Hengist had braved the darkness to venture through a trapdoor in the empty baths to find strange workings below the floors. Huge containers of water had once been heated by furnaces and then pumped throughout the house. Hengist immediately saw possibilities in the vast echoing spaces into which he had wandered.

Cobwebbed and dusty, he stared at the twenty volunteers who accompanied him. Their shoulders were bowed and they had the worn look of men who felt the multiple stings of failure and defeat.

‘Horsa’s blood shouts out to me from the earth,’ Hengist began. ‘The Valkyrie have carried him to Asgaad, but his shade demands blood price. It will be paid.’

He paused, while his warriors slowly raised their weary eyes as they gained confidence from his stern, unbending form.

‘The enemy has left our dead to rot on the hill where they will be devoured by wild things, while they parade the remains of Horsa’s body for the amusement of their farmers. Such desecration is deliberate and denigrating. Do we let this insult pass? Do we retreat once more and try to forget the blood of our brethren?’

The Saxons who remained with Hengist listened to the words of their thane, their brows furrowed with the implications of their defeat. The men were angry and their slow, growing resentment showed in their tired eyes.

‘Our honour has been stamped into the dust and I, Hengist Horselord, contributed to it. I retreated to save the remnants of our people so we might sail north to a new homeland, far from Ambrosius’s Roman-trained troops. I had thought that I could live with the shame, but I was wrong. Look around you, my brothers in arms. This place was a Roman house, a rich man’s abode and a plaything for his family. These floors were heated and the family washed daily, something that wouldn’t hurt a few of you mongrels.’

Some Saxon warriors raised their heads in anger, but Hengist smiled a slow, lazy grin that convinced the men that he meant no offence.

‘In fact, these empty baths have given me an idea. And it’s more than just a notion, it’s a plan whereby we can strike the bastards in their naked hearts when they have been fooled into believing us to be barely worth watching.’

‘You’re right there, Hengist.’ A tall, gangling scout offered his opinion. ‘A troop of their cavalry passed close by the villa two hours ago. They knew full well that some of our warriors were hiding here, but they decided we mattered so little that they left us alone as they headed towards Rutupiae. They just didn’t consider us to be worth the trouble. No doubt they’ll be back later, when they’ve run out of prey.’

Hengist curled his lips in contempt for enemies so confident that they failed to remove even a small number of combatants from the field.

‘Aye, Gunter! In their place, I’d show no mercy and clean out the whole nest of us, as neatly and as bloodlessly as possible. However, if they choose to leave us to dig in, who are we to stop them?’

‘Who indeed!’ Gunter grinned like a grey wolf, his lupine eyes glinting in the lamplight. ‘But we’ll need more men than we’ve got if we’re to defeat them, even if their numbers are few.’

‘Aye, and our warriors wait for us in Rutupiae. They most probably think that I’ve run mad with grief for the loss of Horsa.’

‘Mad?’ one wit in the back corner of the atrium piped up. ‘Mad like a fox!’

It was a snaggle-toothed old man of thirty-five, the survivor of dozens of raids into the lands of the Britons. At his age he possessed little hope, but a dark, savage pride remained which told Hengist that when this warrior perished the enemy would pay dearly for his life.

‘Baldur!’ Hengist smiled. ‘Your courage deserves an opportunity for revenge, while your grey hairs have earned you a place in my plan. Your loyalty will be rewarded.’ As Baldur nodded slowly, Hengist swung back to impale Gunter with his bright, piercing eyes. ‘Gunter, I need you to run to Rutupiae, in company with Baldur, who will carry out a special task for which he is admirably suited. You will order Otha to return to me with all our able-bodied warriors, but only the strongest and the fiercest of those who are left alive.’

The younger warrior was shaking his head in refusal before Hengist had finished speaking. His scarred and weathered face was aged beyond his years by a lifetime of staring into far skies, pulling on wildly gyrating oars and searching for physical weaknesses in the attacks of opponents. That he still lounged against a wall in a darkened Roman atrium stated volumes about his flexibility, his intelligence and his resilience.

‘No, lord! I’ll not run away, even for you!’

Hengist continued to speak as if Gunter had remained silent, although every warrior in the room felt the temperature drop. Their eyes swivelled between the two men, and most decided that they would rather be elsewhere when their thane decided what to do with a disobedient warrior.

‘Baldur, I must ask you to sail with the women to Belgica. Not in retreat, but to escort them to safety. I will not leave this land, which is stained with Horsa’s blood and enriched by our noble dead, until I’ve extracted my blood price, so on your shoulders rests the task of convincing landless men that there are acres of fertile land for the taking in these isles. On your shoulders rests the responsibility for the success of my whole plan. We will meet again when I follow you into the north.’

‘Don’t ask me to do this thing, thane,’ Baldur begged, knowing in his heart that he could deny Hengist nothing, yet unable to contemplate a world where he had run away from an enemy.

‘Otha’s men must return under the cover of darkness. They will sleep by day, and in trees if necessary. The Celts are aware that we are using this villa as a resting place, so we will hide our warriors in the hypocaust during the daylight hours.’

Annoyed by Hengist’s refusal to acknowledge him, Gunter lowered his eyebrows in irritation. ‘What is your plan, my lord?’

Gunter’s tone wasn’t defiant, but Hengist read the same resistance in the faces of the other warriors. The thane began to pace. How far dared he take his warriors into his confidence? Would they understand the necessity for the brutality and the cruelty of his plan, or the lack of honour entailed in its execution? Probably not. But what choice did he have, when all was said and done? Regretfully, Hengist decided to explain some of his reasoning to his warriors. Better a half-truth than total denial. And Gunter’s stubborn resistance might be turned to advantage.

‘Vortimer believes we are finished as a fighting force. He pursues the main pack of Saxons and leaves our stragglers to be mopped up later. As far as he is concerned, we are negligible, an insult in itself, but one that serves my purposes perfectly. When Otha returns with my warriors, they will secrete themselves in the hypocaust and we will wait for as long as it takes to entice a large number of our enemies into our ambush.’ He paused. ‘Meanwhile, I need a volunteer. The role will be very dangerous and, should Catigern have his way, the chosen warrior will not live for very long. This warrior will go to the Celts and beg for the body of Horsa, my brother. He will go down on his knees and tempt the Celtic lords with the gold that is to be sent to Belgica with the ceols. My volunteer will trample his honour in the dust to carry out my wishes, for he will implore the Celts to bury or burn our dead. Will you face the fury of Catigern, Gunter, or do you prefer to go to Rutupiae? I have told you my plan, and now I await your choice.’

Hengist’s eyes had taken on a dangerous red glow. The warriors saw the promise of bloody murder in those eyes and their own gazes lowered. Even their shoulders bowed in submission, except for the warrior who had defied Hengist in the first place.

‘Well, Gunter? I’m waiting.’

Gunter wished fervently that he had kept his mouth shut, no matter that all men had permission to stand before their thane and question his rulings. Hengist had proved his superiority again and again, through feats of arms and in his clinical ability to judge men and lead his people. Nevertheless, Gunter would not go to Rutupiae.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord Hengist. Your decisions are always wise, and I was wrong to question your judgement . . . I beg your pardon, my lord . . .’

‘Enough, Gunter. Since you appear to have the ability to think ahead, you may have your way and not go with Baldur. Instead, you will volunteer to seek out Vortimer’s lair while Baldur will go to Rutupiae with a trusted warrior of his choice. He will send Otha back with the warriors I require. Is that agreed, Baldur?’ The ageing Saxon nodded. ‘Then you will sail to Belgica to the old Roman port of Gesoriacum. There you will discover Saxons, Frisians and Angles by the score. You will also meet Jutes aplenty in the waterfront taverns, all seeking a master who will lead them to good lands and the spoils of war. Many of them will be the sweepings of the northern climes – thieves, murderers and boasters – but take them all. You may use half the Saxon gold to buy ceols, but be ready to sail as soon as you receive word that you are required to re-enter my service.’

Baldur stood taller under the heavy burdens laid on him by his thane. Like many men, he lacked the ability to decide on his own path in life and had sought a brilliant comet to follow, and he was grateful that he now rode in Hengist’s powerful wake. His age wouldn’t deter him, for he could still run as far as the younger men, and he would obey his thane to the death if need be.

‘Where will we meet again, my lord?’ he asked.

‘You will sail down the Abus Flood to a flea-bitten port that the Romans called Petuaria. It is swamp and light forest, a land more sea than soil, but it will suffice. If we cannot have the rich lands of the south, then we will take the wide, green lands in the north. But I swear to you, Baldur, that we will have land, and this time no one will drive us out.’