The Saxon Knives, page 31
part #2 of The Song of Ash Series
I stutter, my lips suddenly parched. “Y-yes, sire.” He nods, puts the crucifix absentmindedly back on the table and picks up the half-empty bottle of wine before leaving the tent – but leaves the goblet on the floor; in its finely polished rim I glance the laughing face of the one-eyed god.
The embrace of Rhedwyn’s arms is soft, long and warm. She’s hurting my shoulder, but I dare not flinch, not wanting to worry her again. I haven’t yet peeked under the bandages to see if the healing power of the Drui’s miracle still holds. I don’t know if I want it to. For if the healing was not the miracle the horned man purported it to be, then neither could the vision induced by the mistletoe smoke…
I haven’t yet told anyone about the vision. What would be the point? There is nobody alive who could confirm or deny what I saw. For all I know, it could’ve been just a feverish nightmare, another delirious vision sent by demons to torment me. It didn’t feel like it, though. It felt true… More true than any dream I’ve ever had.
Reluctantly, I slip away and slide back onto the bed, feigning weariness. She sits next to me, her head on my shoulder, her breath in my ear.
“It was awesome to behold,” she speaks in a half-gasp, half-whisper. “To think there was still such power in this land! I thought the Roman priests destroyed it all.”
“Everyone did,” I reply, then I notice what she just said. “Wait, were you there, too?”
She nods. “All who worried about you were there. The Dux, the Iutes, some courtiers – even Ambrosius sent a representative.”
“Ambrosius? He’d never condone this display of pagan idolatry.”
“He sent a priest to pray the devils did not take your soul.” She giggles. “Looks like that’s all their Roman God is good for.”
I scowl, by reflex. I find her light-hearted blasphemy troubling. But even more troubling is the news that Wortigern organised my healing ritual into some sort of display for the delegates to the Council – and would not tell me about it afterwards. No wonder Donatus recognised me – he may even have been present at the ritual himself. I’ve seen such things organised too often at the court in Londin to know the gathering of the nobles at the stone circle was no accident.
She leans in for a kiss, but I pull away. The vision returns, as clear and vivid as the night before.
“What’s wrong, Ash?”
I can’t stand to look into her eyes, open wide and gleaming like two polished sapphires.
“My – my head still hurts a little, must be a side effect of the healing process.”
There’s no point asking her again about her family. It would only confuse her needlessly, and there’s nothing new she could add. If Hengist and Horsa decided to withhold any information from her, they must have had their reasons. And if they hadn’t, then, well, it was all just a dream, a bad dream…
“Aeric,” I whisper, inadvertently.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I smile weakly.
“I thought you said Aeric,” she says and chuckles. “But of course, you couldn’t – ”
“I couldn’t what?” I ask, my voice a bit too sharp. She startles for a second, then composes herself.
“When I was a child…” she starts. “There were children my age on Tanet, but none in my uncle’s household. Sometimes I’d get lonely at night, and I’d imagine a friend to talk to. A boy my age – no, maybe a little older… I’d name him Aeric.” She laughs. “I suppose he’d look a bit like you now. Maybe that’s why I like you.”
She mistakes my stunned silence for disapproval. “It’s silly, I know. I’ve never told anyone about this before.”
“It’s not silly at all.” I pull her closer, but stop short of kissing her. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
We sit like this for a while. I dare not speak, fearing I’d start blubbing. I don’t recognise all the emotions that tear through me right now. Revulsion mixes with anger, sadness is marred by the fear of the sin we have inadvertently committed. I’m close to tears and I don’t want her to see it. She seems so content in my arms.
Hengist must have known about this. As soon as we get back to Londin I will need to ask him about this Aeric, son of Eobba – no matter the consequences.
Rhedwyn’s fingers slide down my back and into my breeches. My body is not repulsed; it doesn’t care what the truth is. I can excuse myself with the headache for now, but how much longer can I keep up the charade before she starts to suspect something?
At night, somebody changes my bandages. They no longer wrap my entire side, but line the shoulder and arm, up to the wrist, in a thin, fragrant layer. I can move my hand freely now – as much as the pain allows. I’m still hiding the discomfort. I do not wish to spoil the joy my miraculous recovery seems to bring Rhedwyn, Beadda, and all others who wish me well. Besides, it does feel immeasurably better than before the night ritual, so I tell myself that the healing must simply be taking more time than I expected.
The crowds gather around the great timber enclosure. It is the last day of the Council. The Bishops are about to declare their final verdict. There is little doubt as to what it will be. Although there may be a few dissident voices – notable among them, Fatalis and the eternally grumpy Donatus of Ebrauc – Wortigern has clearly failed to convince the majority of the gathered clerics and delegates of his innocence. He will need to make a decision today; most likely, he already has: whether to plea for the forgiveness and mercy of Rome, or remain, stubborn, excommunicated, an outcast in the eyes of the Lord and the people of Britannia.
As I follow the solemn, queuing procession to the enclosure, I spot Wortimer and Ambrosius at the entrance, surrounded by some of their retinue. They talk and laugh like old friends, making no effort to conceal their amity. I retreat deeper into the crowd and sneak closer to hear their conversation. Wortimer spots something and falls silent. I follow his gaze to see Rhedwyn, entering the arena with Beadda at her side and the six young hostages in tow, all wearing the white baptismal robes. Wortimer’s face turns that peculiar mixture of lust and viciousness with which he always meets the Iute princess, but there is something else there now, too, a tinge of… regret?
“You’ll have to forget the girl, Wortimer,” says Ambrosius. “I will not tolerate my daughter being second in your affections.”
“Not even as a slave?”
“Control your loins, boy. A greater reward awaits you.”
The crowd pushes me forward and I miss out the rest of the conversation, but what I’ve heard is enough to launch my thoughts racing. A daughter…? A reward? What arrangement is it that they are so keen to discuss in the open? I’m so baffled I almost forget to feel relieved at the news Rhedwyn might be safe from Wortimer’s advances for good. I don’t even care what the price for this could be.
Then I remember what I’ve just learned about her – about us. This is even more important if she’s your sister, I tell myself, but it’s useless. There is a black hole at the back of my mind where I resolved to keep the secret for the time being, while matters of state are being decided around me. It is like a sore tooth – the more I try not to think about it, the more I prod it with my dark thoughts, but it produces no solution, only pain. I did not speak to Rhedwyn again after her last visit, excusing myself with being busy preparing for the final vote. I do not know how I would share the truth with her – I don’t even know that I should. She need never know. If she doesn’t know of the sin, it cannot harm her. Perhaps I should simply disappear from her life.
Perhaps I should disappear from everyone’s lives.
Drowning in my own sorrow I don’t notice when the crowd spits me out into the timber enclosure. The construction is now finished, and I see it’s a distant echo of a Roman amphitheatre, a mockery of an auditorium, but with barely a hint of an arena – instead, there’s just enough space in the middle for a small podium, shielded from the sun by a cloth canopy spread on four posters.
There’s already a speaker there, a bald priest addressing the crowd that’s still finding their places on the rough wooden benches. I can’t hear him through the noise, I don’t think anybody can, though I spot a small group of similarly old and bald priests sitting in the lowest circle, listening intently. It feels like we’ve intruded on some theological debate. The preacher pauses, looks up, as if noticing for the first time the dozens gathered in the enclosure, and finishes up his speech with a rhetorical flourish that gets lost in the breeze. The remaining old priests hastily retreat from their seats as the five Bishops and their retinue move in to take their place at the foot of the podium.
Lucius, the Bishop of Corin, is the first to step up. He bangs his crooked cane on the floor. The noise reverberates and spreads a blanket of hushes around the audience. At last, everyone is seated and quiet. The final day of the Council begins.
Three hours into the proceedings, the only thing that stops me from dozing off is a desperate need to take a piss. Everyone else in the audience is just as bored and tired. The Bishops have been presenting their individual opinions in long, solemn sermons. All save Fatalis have so far condemned Wortigern and voted for sustaining the anathema. Donatus, sitting in the last row, high above the arena, refuses to speak until it is time to cast the final vote.
“It is more than just the stubborn insistence on following the absurd Pelagian heresy that angers us, though this, of course, makes the Mother Church’s heart ache the most,” says the last speaker, Severus. He arrived from Werlam last night to represent his mentor and, by extension, Rome. Rumour has it that Germanus himself has grown too ill to travel such a long distance – despite the healing powers of the sacred relics. Severus’s voice is shaky, wobbly. His ranking is lower than the Metropolitan Bishops, and from what I’ve heard he’s understood to have been promised Fatalis’s position once Wortigern and all who follow him have been dealt with. The conflict of interest is obvious to the point of absurd, but there isn’t anyone brave or stupid enough to point it out.
“It is his friendship with pagans,” he continues. “And it is his refusal to subject himself to Rome’s judgement – despite the proof of God’s will in the many miracles of Albanus! When this great city, the very heart of civilisation itself is threatened, once again, he sides with the same barbarians who invade her borders. God in his wisdom and mercy has put his chief representative in Rome – and it is the duty of every Christian soldier to march to her protection, rather than welcome her enemies into your homes and villages!”
It is a thunderous speech, but it ends in resounding silence. In his fervour, in his desire to ingratiate himself with Germanus and his Roman masters, Severus went too far. This is exactly what Wortigern predicted before we left Londin. A call to arms in defence of Rome is too much for the gathered nobles to accept. Even those on Ambrosius’s side stir uneasy, though they, as everyone else, say nothing. Donatus was right: Germanus has been away from Britannia for too long. He’s lost touch with the will of its people – and with the patience of its rulers. I seek out the Bishop of Ebrauc. He notices me and shakes his head with a despondent grimace.
A spinning gust of wind breaks the silence and picks up sand and sawdust around the podium in a whirlwind. As the dust settles, Wortigern rises heavily from his seat, his face grim. He hasn’t shaved for a few days, and he’s kept his hair shaggy and unkempt, giving him a deliberately weary, haggard look. For the first time since the Council started, he wears the jewel-studded diadem, the insignia of Britannia’s Governor, on his head: a clear challenge to Ambrosius. He crosses the arena and stares at Severus until the priest retreats from the podium, like a frightened dog.
“These people you call pagans,” he starts, his voice bellowing with a slight croak at the back of the throat. “These people you call barbarians. They have lived among us longer than anyone can remember. They are our neighbours. They are our friends. And, yes, some are even family.” He looks to me. So does everyone else. I shift in my seat. “And who invited them here in the first place?” He raises an accusing finger in the direction of Ambrosius’s retinue, where Severus hid himself from Wortigern’s wrath. “Rome! You brought them here as your socii, just like you did in Hispania and Gaul! They were good enough when you needed them to fight your wars, but now that you feel strong again, you would throw them away like a broken spear. Just like you threw us away, thirty years ago.”
There’s an amused scowl on Ambrosius’s face, as if he didn’t believe the sincerity of Wortigern’s speech.
“You speak to us of Christian duty,” the Dux continues. “You speak to us of saints and miracles. But your saints are some old bones dug up from the ground, and your miracles are theatrical props. Let me tell you about a true miracle, one that you’ve all been witnesses to.”
He nods at me and gestures me to come down and join him at the podium. I hesitate. He smiles invitingly, but there’s menace in his eyes. I know better than to ignore his summons for the second time.
“This boy was born a pagan. One of those Iute refugees you all scorn so much. He grew up, as Bishop Fatalis can attest, into a decent, Godfearing Christian, a warrior and, I’d venture, somewhat of a scholar. I treat him as I would a son.” Here, a glance at Wortimer, who only scoffs. “Some of you have come to know him too, while he has been here. And yet, when death arrived to take him from us, where was the God of Rome? Where was Christ’s help that we all prayed for so?”
At this, the Bishops are beginning to rise up. They already suspect where this is going, and they’re not about to let it pass without protest, but Wortigern only raises his voice louder over the murmur.
“You all saw it, with your own eyes! The pagan gods came and healed this boy’s arm, when no doctor or priest of Rome could help him!”
He’s shaking me by the injured shoulder and I do all I can not to cry out in pain. The murmur rises into a rumble.
“It was the work of the demons, not gods!” booms the Bishop of Corin. “Beware what you speak of next, blasphemer!” shouts another.
Even Ambrosius stands up, at last stirred into action. “Tread carefully, Wortigern,” he warns. “There’s no need for any of this hysteria. Remember our deal.”
“Ah, yes, the deal.” Wortigern throws his head back in a bitter laughter. “I know all about the deals you and your son have been making. A deal with the pagan Gewisse, who still serve in Elasio’s armies, even though their families are being slaughtered in the name of Christ.”
Ambrosius’s face turns dark red, but he stays silent. Among the chaos, I catch a glimpse of Wortimer, looking back and forth between him and his father. Abruptly, he stands up and leaves, nodding at his Briton retinue to follow. His Gewisse bodyguards remain in place, baffled, not certain if they’ve understood Wortigern’s words correctly.
Wortigern leans forward and lowers his voice for effect. “And another deal you’ve made – with me, a blasphemous heretic. Your daughter and my son, a union of the families, and me abdicating in their favour, in exchange for your Bishop’s vote against the anathema. This is how much your God is worth to you. This is how much you care about the Pope’s pronouncements. This isn’t about faith – this was always just about power. It’s all lies, a game of light and shadow.”
He grabs my shoulder again. “This boy is all the proof I need of the power of pagan gods. Denounce Pelagius? No, I will not denounce him. He was a good man, but only a man. Instead, I denounce Christ himself!”
The rumble turns into a roar. At Wortigern’s subtle signal, Beadda and his warriors rush to surround us, their long knives, hidden in their boots until now, drawn. Rhedwyn is among them, her face crumpled in fear and shock. Even the six hostages have joined us, revealing mail under their white robes. The sight of naked blades induces panic in the audience – nobody else thought to come armed to the proceedings. The clerics and minor officials are already trickling out the entrance, not willing to wait to see how the conflict is resolved.
“Devil take you and all who stand with you!” cries the Bishop of Corin, followed by the rest of the Council. Even Fatalis joins him in the denunciation; still, Donatus remains silent, smiling mysteriously. The courtiers from Londin stand divided, wavering. Wortigern calls at them.
“It’s time to choose – be slaves of Rome again, or stand proud and alone. Do not fear their curses, they have no power over you. The Gods of the Saxons and Britons of old will protect you, like they protected Ash!”
I want to cry out, to protest; I don’t want to be used like this, I don’t want to be a pawn in the Dux’s game. I understand everything now – all of this must have been planned by Wortigern not long after the hunting accident, maybe even before. This is why he had all those nobles and priests attend the ceremony at the stone circle. The horned man was likely his invention, too. He knew I would provide him with a motive – did he expect I would be the one who would goad him into it?
Except… the ritual was a miracle. My arm did get better. How could Wortigern have known it would work? Could it have been a true miracle, even if it was planned beforehand?
The solution to this mystery must wait. I notice Rhedwyn’s face turn pale. Wortigern holds her wrist in a tight grip, and glares at me. It’s a clear threat. Obey me. Even in this terrible moment, I can’t help but admire his audacity. We’re surrounded by Beadda and his Iutes, the only defence against the chaos outside – and still he dares to threaten Rhedwyn’s safety? I feel I should call his bluff, but I’m paralysed by the sheer dauntless force of his spirit. How can I defy him – how could anyone? He’s a leader who’s just turned his people against Rome, against the Church, against God – and not as some mad impulse, but as a cold, calculated, long prepared decision. I sense that only now do I fully understand how he came to rule Londin and the better half of Britannia. I am powerless against such will.
I turn back towards the raging crowd. The group of Londin delegates has split almost in half. I’m surprised it’s even that many. Wortigern must have been sounding them out in preparation for his move.
