The Hallowed Isle Book Two (11 page)

Ceretic assembled his allies in the fields outside of the old naval fortress of Portus Adurni that another German, the admiral Carausius, had built long ago, and there they held the feast of Ostara. It was a tribal celebration, in the old style of Germania, meant to remind men of their common heritage. The penned animals moved anxiously, as if aware of their role in the proceedings, but the rest of the camp hummed with anticipation.

Scouts had confirmed the rumors. The British princes were advancing, led by Docomaglos of Dumnonia with his sons and the boy whom they had made their king. Leonorus Maglos had fled Venta, and Ceretic had no desire to test the enthusiasm of his allies by exposing them to a seige. It would be better to meet the foe in open battle on the flood plain across from the Isle of Vecta, where the estuary of the Icene met the sea.

In the midst of the fields was a fine grove of oak trees. Here, some Roman had set up an offering tablet to Mercurius. It had been abandoned when the Christians came and grown over with vines until Ceretic had claimed the place and raised beside it an altar of heaped stones.

Oesc stood holding the tether of the white ox that Hengest had sent for the sacrifice. Across the field he could see the fyrd of Cantuware, farmers who had left their fields at their king's command, and the professional warriors of Hengest's household who had come to guard his heir. The ox stamped, and rubbed its head against his thigh, rocking him on his feet and leaving a smear of white hairs across the crimson wool of his tunic and knocking off some of the primrose blossoms from the wreath around its horns, then bent and lipped up more of the grain that had been poured out for it. A little of Oesc's anxiety eased. It was holy corn, mixed with sacred herbs and blessed by the priests, and for the ox to eat it signified acceptance of its role as offering.

He could see Hæthwæge standing with the other god-folk who had been assembled to bless the proceedings: the ancient Godwulf, who had once served at the court of Vitalinus, and two witegas who had been brought over from Germania with the most recent shipload of warriors. From the eagerness with which they surveyed the cattle, he guessed it had been some time since they had had sufficient beasts on which to practice their craft.

In the space between the animals and the men of the army three tumblers were performing, while another beat out a cheerful rhythm on a small hand drum. As the day drew towards its nooning, the clouds began to part, and the bits of metal sewn to the players clothes flashed and glittered in the sun. Then the light broke through completely, and from within the sacred grove came the call of a horn.

The chieftains who held the nine white horses began to lead them forward, followed by the oxen. As the beast next to him moved out, Oesc jerked on the halter of his animal and joined the line. From the sound, the pigs were being brought up behind them; he pitied the men who had to keep
them
under control.

In slow procession, men and beasts moved sunwise around the grove. Aelle's son Cymen was just ahead of him, with another ox, even bigger than his own. Men of the fyrd stepped out from the encircling crowd as they passed, draping the beasts with additional garlands, or simply patting the smooth hides as they murmured their prayers—“Let me fight bravely!” “May I kill many of the enemy!” and sometimes, “May the gods bring me safely home.”

As they came around for the second time, each animal was led inside the grove. The beasts were becoming more restive as the blood-scent grew stronger, but when Oesc's turn came the ox followed docilely down the well-trodden path.

The heads and skins of the earlier victims already hung from the trees. Now the ox did plant his feet, nostrils flaring, and though the boy tugged on the rope, refused to stir. As Oesc struggled to make it move, Hæthwæge came forward, singing softly, a spray of ash leaves in her hand. He recognized “Ger” the rune of harvest, and “Sigel” for victory. At the sound, the ox calmed and stood quietly as the wicce moved around him, brushing the leaves across head and back and flanks.

Ceretic came after her, a knife in his hand. He cut a pinch of hair from the curling cowlick on the animal's forehead and stepped back, holding it high.

“Woden, to you this ox is offered, for you made holy. Accept it, War-father, and give us the victory!”

The air around the altar tingled with the energy of the blood that had been spilled already. As the war-leader spoke, wind whispered in the leaves and lifted the hair from Oesc's brow, and as Ceretic opened his fingers, the white hairs whirled away.

Hæthwæge's fingers closed over Oesc's hand on the rope, and the ox followed them to the altar, where the butcher was waiting. He was a huge man, heavily muscled, with a hammer in his hand. As the ox reached the edge of the blood pit, he swung. There was a loud thunk as the hammer hit, and the ox went to its knees.

For a moment Oesc simply stared. Then he remembered to draw his seax, and Hæthwæge guided his hand to the pulsing vein in the throat of the ox and he struck and pulled the blade through.

The animal jerked, but within seconds the gush of blood dropped its internal pressure past the point of pain and the breath sighed out through the sliced windpipe in long gasps. Like everyone, Oesc had helped with the butchering each autumn, and when he was hunting, given the mercy stroke to hares or deer. Death was always serious, but he had never before understood that it was holy.

“Make your prayer now—” whispered the wisewoman, holding a brass bowl underneath the ox and letting it fill with blood.

“Woden, receive this spirit, and fill us with your soul. Father of Victory, bring my men back home to their fields, and me to my grandfather's hall!”

The eyes of the ox were dull already, and he could feel the life of the body ebbing from the flesh beneath his hands like grain from a torn bag. But the grain still existed even when the bag was empty, and he had the sense that the life of the ox had not been extinguished so much as drawn away.

Your flesh will give us power!
he thought.
May my own blood, when the time comes, be as good an offering!

The blood was draining now in spurts. Hæthwæge took Oesc's arm and pulled him to his feet, and as the last of the flow dribbled into the pit, men looped ropes around the ox's feet and hauled it away to be skinned and butchered for the feast that would follow. The wicce dipped the spray of leaves into the blood and sprinkled Oesc, then handed it to the boy and gave him the bowl.

Still dazed, Oesc made his way out of the grove to bless the men whom he hoped to lead to victory.

The armies came to battle three days later, under weeping skies. The Saxons formed their shieldwall on the shores of one of the streams that came down to the sound, feet planted in the muddy soil, watching the British cavalry sweep towards them across the plain. Rather than creating a solid line, Ceretic had ordered each contingent to form a wedge, so that more of the spears could come into play. It was a saw-edge that would cut the British to pieces, he had told them, riding up and down along the river bank.

Now the commander stood with his hearth-companions at the center, his white horse led off by a thrall to the rear. If he turned his head, Oesc could see the gleam of the gilded boar image that crowned the steel crest of Ceretic's helmet. On the other side, Aelle waited with his sons beside him. Oesc's helm was rounded, with a nasal and side flaps, and ringmail hanging around the back and sides. Beneath tunic and mail shirt he was sweating, but most of his men would fight with no more protection than a leather cap banded in iron, bodies defended only by their shields.

Beyond the reed beds, pewter-colored waters stretched away to a smudge of darker grey that was the island. Above the army, gulls rode the wind, crying like wælcyriges seeking out the slain. Soon they would be able to make their choices. The British were drawing steadily closer, trotting in close formation. Their shields were painted Roman-fashion, each contingent bearing its own device. He could see the glitter of their lance-heads as they came on. Perspiration made his hand slip on the shaft of his own throwing spear. Oesc leaned it against his shield, wiped his palm on the skirts of his tunic and grasped the javelin once more. Hæthwæge had a spear, he thought suddenly, as powerful as Artor's legendary sword. Why, he wondered, had Hengest not ordered her to bring it to war? When they got home he would ask her.

If
he got home. . . . The British were cantering now, nearing with appalling speed. Surely the river would slow them, he thought, and then the hooves of the horses were churning the water into arcs of glittering spray. They surged up the bank like a rising wave, lancepoints dipping in deadly unison.

Oesc set his feet in the mud, lifted his left arm and felt his shield braced by those of Byrhtwold on one side and Eadric on the other, and raised his right arm, spear poised to throw. Wild-eyed horses expanded to fill his vision, the faces of the riders contorted above their shields. He felt a yell leave his throat, lost in the roar of the Saxon battle cry.

A ripple of motion swept the shield wall. Instinctively his arm swung forward, releasing the spear. Here and there the oncoming tide of horsemen faltered, but that first flight of spears was not enough to stop them. Oesc hunched behind his shield, straining to hold it in place between the others as an oncoming horseman struck the line.

The shieldwall rocked backward, and for a moment Oesc was lifted off his feet, but he did not fall. The enemy horse, pierced by spiked shield-bosses, reared, screaming. A lance thrust down at him, passing just above his shoulder. Oesc managed to get his sword free, and glimpsing a mailed body, stabbed upward. For a moment he felt as if he were supporting the entire weight of man and horse, then the foe recoiled and he caught his breath once more.

The British riders had broken the shield hedge in several places, and were in amongst the Saxons, stabbing with lance and sword. Others had swirled off to either side in an attempt to outflank them. Over the tumult Oesc glimpsed a dragon banner that he supposed must belong to Artor. It was being carried by a big man with dark hair. Then a horse loomed suddenly above him; a sword clanged against his shield boss and he gave ground, and for a long time after that was too busy to think about anything at all.

Consciousness returned gradually on a tide of lamentation.

Why are they weeping? Am I dead?
Oesc wondered. But the dead didn't feel pain, and as awareness returned he realized he had a raging headache and was sore everywhere. For a few moments he lay still, trying to remember.

Then a flash of memory showed him Byrhtwold lying sprawled before him with a spear thrust through his chest. After that he had been seized by battle madness. That must be why he felt so awful now.
They must be wailing for Byrhtwold,
he thought then, and felt hot tears on his own cheeks.
He died saving me.

Oesc opened his eyes. Blurred vision showed him a night sky and the shapes of men moving back and forth between him and the fires. Then he tried to sit up and discovered that his hands and feet were tied.

Alarm shocked through his body, sharpening his senses. The lamentations he heard were in the British tongue, and the faces and gear of the men around him were British as well. He had been taken by the enemy.

He knew enough of their language to make out the words—

At least, he thought with grim satisfaction, the Saxons had accounted for one hero among their enemies. The British were not rejoicing, and yet he was a prisoner, his mail shirt enough to mark him as worth saving for ransom. Who had won the battle?

He took a deep breath and tried to break his bonds, and at the effort agony slashed through his head, dividing him from consciousness once more.

When Oesc opened his eyes again, it was morning. His other wounds had stiffened painfully, but the headache had subsided to a dull throb.

“Yes, that's him—” said a Saxon voice nearby. “Octha's whelp. I saw him in Venta.”

Biting his lip to keep from groaning, Oesc rolled over. Squinting against the sunlight, he looked up at his captors. The Saxon was only a churl, of no importance. He blinked, trying to make out the features of the other two men.

“Let me kill him!” said one of them, a man of about thirty years with curling dark hair. “My brother's blood cries out for vengeance.”

“Do you think I don't mourn him too?” said his companion. Oesc couldn't see him properly, but he sounded young, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. “He taught me to fight! He saved my life a dozen times yesterday . . . he was my friend. . . .”

“We all grieve for Gerontius, but this one is worth more to us as a hostage,” said an older man.

“How so? He's no kin to Ceretic.”

“True, but he is Hengest's grandson, and while we hold him, Cantium will stand surety for Ceretic's good behavior.”

There was a long silence. Though his head was throbbing furiously, Oesc struggled to get up, refusing to remain bound like a thrall at his enemies' feet.

“Cut his bonds,” said the young voice tiredly.

The older man sawed at the thongs with his knife and hauled Oesc to his feet, supporting him until the dizziness passed and he could stand alone.

Artor
. . . thought Oesc, taking in the rich embroidery on the bloodstained tunic, and the golden torque beneath the thin fringing of brown beard on the jaw. He himself was a bit taller, otherwise there was little to choose between them for size.

“Can you understand me?” Artor asked, waiting for his prisoner's nod. “We didn't win the battle, but neither did you. You will come with us, bound by iron chains in a wagon, or bound not to try escape by oath before your gods, riding free. It's up to you.”

Your father killed mine . . .
thought Oesc. There was a dagger at the king's belt. If he could grab it and strike, Octha would be avenged. But at this moment it was taking all his strength just to stand. Once more he met Artor's eyes, and this time he could not look away.