Shadowland (8 page)

Now at last, their journey had been blessed with
survival, and the voyage was near its end. The boats’ high prows carved and
painted to depict roaring mythical beasts, finally bit into the shingle of the
eastern coast of Britain.
The long oars were silently stowed, the large square sails lowered, and the
first Saxon warriors jumped down into the shallow water and ran up the beach;
their feet crunching heavily in the loose stones. It was the task of these
brave few to defend their brethren from any foes concealed within the tree line
at this, their most vulnerable time, it was an honour granted only to the
battle-tested elite. Behind them, others dropped down, gripping ropes of
twisted hemp, and began pulling the boats higher, beyond the clawing reach of
the breaking waves.

The lead boat stopped moving, a rough plank appeared
over the side, and a single Saxon warrior, ignoring the frenzied activity
around him, descended onto the beach. As soon as he felt land beneath his feet,
he stooped, picked up a handful of stones and, drawing in a deep breath, let
them drop slowly through the fingers of his clenched fist. Raising his huge
head, he cast about the beach and nodded in satisfaction.

His size easily set him apart from his men. He
carried the scars of countless battles, worn with pride as his right to rule
over others and marking him as a mighty warrior. He scanned the beach through
heavy, sunken eyes that squinted out beneath bushy eyebrows over a thick and
pitted nose. A strong jaw concealed beneath a thick dark beard, framed fleshy
white lips. It was a collection of features that made a particularly unpleasant
face.

As with most of his men, a conical helmet with
decorated nose guard protected his head but his had the addition of a layer of
chainmail falling behind to shield his neck. A woollen tunic fell past knee
level, covering thin linen britches, bound around the calves with leather
strapping for ease of movement. At his belt hung a sword, a pouch holding a few
personal possessions, and a seax, the long single-bladed knife favoured by all
Saxons.

Taking a deep breath, he removed his helmet and allowed
the cold wind to tug his long hair loose as he surveyed the coast with a
critical eye. The wind felt good, the chill causing little discomfort. The
country they had journeyed from was also one of biting cold and if anything,
the weather on this new land felt like home.

‘Britain.
I have waited a long time to greet you, and now at last I have arrived.’ His
voice was deep and carried an undercurrent of anger as he surveyed the land he
had come to conquer. He glanced up as one of his men emerged from the trees and
ran down the beach towards him,
coming to
a stop in a spray of stones
.

The warrior slapped an arm against his round wooden
shield, a greeting returned by the slightest of gestures. ‘We are close to a
small village,’ the warrior pointed to the south, ‘and there’s a large stone
building some distance inland. There is no one here to greet us.’

‘He will be here; we are of one blood, and one bone.
Burn the village, and then follow us inland. I shall take this building of
stone and await my brother and the others there.’ Dismissing the man, Hengist
returned to his vigil, scanning the beach and trees, his brow creased in
thought. Where are you Horsa? We have journeyed to the right place and I hunger
for the sight of you. Sighing once more, he looked back to where the boats lay
on their sides, unloaded and secure above the surf. Instructing three men to
watch over them, he turned and started up the beach, already impatient to leave.
His thoughts turned back to the task at hand, the conquering of these British Isles that cried out for a new ruler now that the
Romans had deserted it. This would be
his
land.

‘Now our day has come,’ he murmured to himself, as
he drew in the deep sweet air of Britain. ‘This land will soon
tremble at the news of our coming, and the names of Hengist and Horsa shall be
sung in the mead halls here for all eternity, for the Saxons have now truly
arrived.’
 

****

The
Pict leaped forward with a shriek of triumph, arms outstretched, reaching for
Usher to pull him from the security of the bush towards a certain death.
Scrabbling back, Usher dug his heels in and then desperately tried to turn
around and get away, but he wasn’t fast enough. He felt the Pict’s hand wrap
around his ankle and begin to drag him out, jabbering incoherently and cackling
with delight as he did so. Spinning back around, he stared into the ugly blue
face that loomed above him and felt a cold rush of panic overwhelm him. A moan
escaped his lips and he thrashed about, trying to hold onto the bush, a root,
anything, but nothing came to hand. In an act of desperation, he dug his
fingers into the forest floor and threw a handful of dirt and leaves up into
the grinning face and the warrior jumped back with a piercing scream, his hands
immediately going to his eyes where he rubbed furiously trying to clear them,
shouting and screaming in pain and frustration.

It had been instinct, rather than fighting tactics
that had saved Usher, but for the moment, he was free and the Pict was blind.
He gazed up and stared for a moment as the Pict clawed frantically at his eyes,
blinking back tears, peering about, searching the shadows blindly. The eyes
were red in the blue face and the warrior began rolling them erratically and
cursed in the strange, coarse Pict tongue before rubbing at them again. He
seemed to be just adding more dirt and blue woad, which in turn made him even
madder. Then his head snapped up and, blinking rapidly, his watery gaze turned
in Usher’s direction again. Usher stopped breathing, only exhaling when the
sightless eyes moved past him.

Throwing back his head, the warrior let out a shrill
undulating cry and several birds erupted in an explosion of feathers from the
branches high above. Usher knew the cry would bring the other Picts to them and
began to scan the surrounding trees fearing the first would soon arrive. He had
to silence him.

Edging forward, his eyes never left the Pict who
continued to mutter and rub at his face. For a moment, Usher contemplated
getting back to the others and running as far and fast as they could. But the
Pict would keep calling, the other Picts would find him, and then they would
know which direction to search for them.

He managed to move three steps but then his foot
came down on a branch and the sound of it snapping echoed through the trees.
The Pict spun and stared right at him, and Usher felt panic rise again. Taking
another careful step, he realised the Pict wasn’t looking directly at him, he
had been drawn to the breaking stick and was still blind but now moving
cautiously in the direction of the sound, hands outstretched, shouting
challenges as he came. The warrior’s face was a mask of hatred and contempt as
tears, dirt, blue woad and now blood, smeared together making him appear like
an evil spirit.
 
Fear threatened to
loosen Usher’s bladder, but he raised a foot and stepped cautiously to his
left, watching as the Pict drew his sword and stabbed forward and then to the
sides in a vain attempt to skewer him. Dragging his gaze from the Pict for a
moment, he scanned the ground ahead and carefully circled further around,
searching the Pict’s movements for an opening. Seeing a branch, he stooped to
pick it up, along with a smaller one that he tossed to the other side to
distract the circling man.

‘
Yaaahhhh
!’ With a cry,
the Pict leapt forward and slashed his sword in a vicious arc, lopping a branch
from the bush close to where the stick had landed. When it met no more
resistance than the bush, he sprang back and began turning about in a slow
circle, head cocked to one side, listening intently.

He continued to circle, but this time, when his back
was turned, Usher dashed forward and brought the branch down hard onto the back
of the sticky blue head. He watched in relief as the man collapsed soundlessly
into the dead leaves.

Stepping cautiously closer, Usher kicked his arm,
the warrior groaned and made to rise, and with a sob of dismay, Usher brought
the branch down once more and then again even harder. A wave of nausea rolled
over him but at least that time, the Pict stayed down.

Cal
appeared and glanced from
the fallen Pict to the branch in Usher's hand. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘I don’t know… I don’t think so.’ Usher stared down
at the fallen man and felt an urge to throw up; but his stomach was empty and
he only succeeded in making a hollow retching sound. Wiping saliva from his
chin, he gazed transfixed as blood trickled down the man’s face, mingling with
the blue mud. His eyes fluttered for a moment and Usher felt a sense of relief
flood through him, he hadn’t killed him. ‘Quick, help me pull him into the
bushes.’ He bent down and took the man’s arm and, with Cal’s help, they set about dragging him into
the shadows.

‘He’s heavy,’ remarked Cal, as he strained to move the dead weight
of the Pict through the leaves.

‘Well, the other’s going to be heavy as well, but we
have to get them out of sight. There could be more along any moment.’

‘Usher?’ hissed Cal, stopping for a moment. ‘If he’s still
alive… do you think we should kill him?’ He stared into his friend’s eyes,
clearly unhappy at the thought of any more killing.

‘I… I don’t think I could,’ said Usher at last.
‘Could you?’ Cal
shook his head with obvious relief. They went back out to the clearing for the
dead Pict with the arrow in him, creeping silently, listening and straining
their senses for any sounds of others approaching. When they got to him, they
roughly grabbed him by the feet and dragged him back through the bushes and lay
him alongside the first, and then ran back out to cover their tracks and the
bloodstains.

Once back alongside the two Picts, Usher pulled away
the long strips of leather the fallen warriors used to hold swords and packs,
and then tied up the unconscious one, binding his hands and feet then gagging
his mouth so he couldn’t cry out.

‘This sort of feels worse than killing him,’
murmured Cal,
staring down when they had finished. ‘If his friends don’t find him, he could
die like this out here in the forest.’

Usher shrugged. ‘He was going to kill me; I saw it
in his eyes just before I threw the dirt into them. This is better than he
would have done for any of us. Anyhow, he’s now in the hands of the spirits or
whatever gods he has looking out for him. We have to get out of here.’ Picking
up the Pict’s short sword and bow, he moved off through the bushes back to
where the others still waited.

Keeping off the path, the little group made its way
through the forest with the occasional sounds of the remaining Picts fading
behind them. Twice they heard distant cries of pain and hoped that it was a
Pict warrior and not Meryn. The archer had managed to give them the opportunity
of escape, but they hoped he hadn’t paid for it with his life.

The middle of the day came and went without the
opportunity to eat, and it was late in the afternoon when they finally emerged
from The Weald, their bellies aching with hunger. Despite their misery, the
children were silent, having given up their sobbing much earlier in the day.

They made their way along the path as it crossed a
shallow river and then meandered close to the forest without ever entering it
again. When later they came across a blackberry bush, it proved a good
distraction as, happy for a while, they picked the few overripe berries left by
the birds, and crammed them hungrily into their mouths, grinning blackberry
grins. Nevertheless, both Usher and Cal knew they had to find more substantial
food and shelter before nightfall. The thought of another night exposed to the
weather without any proper hot food was not something either wanted to face.

They finally moved on, entering open, rolling
meadowland with a small herd of deer grazing about two hundred paces away, next
to an isolated clump of trees. The largest stag had already seen them and was
watching them warily with head held high.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Cal, smiling at the way Usher was fingering
the bow he had taken from the fallen Pict. ‘We don’t have the time or energy
for a chase. Anyway, the village must be close and Meryn seemed sure we would
receive a warm welcome there.’

‘All right,’ said Usher, a little reluctantly, ‘but
I’m sure if I got closer through the trees, then we could have taken one of the
deer into the village as an offering.’

‘Just how do you think we would carry it?’ asked Cal, with a grin. He
slapped Usher on the back and, taking Clarise’s hand, encouraged the others on
once more with promises of warm fires, food, and the chance to sleep on soft
furs.

They
trudged on through the remainder of the afternoon and finally arrived at the
village as the sun was dipping low on the horizon. It was
larger than they had
expected and surrounded by a newly built palisade of timber. Several men were
erecting the last few heavy tree trunks, standing them upright into holes in
the ground, and then trimming the sides to fit close to the next before
pointing the tops to discourage anyone from climbing over.

‘It looks like they’re expecting trouble,’ said Cal, eyeing the workers cautiously.
Usher nodded, then wondered at how distrustful the world had become in such a
short time. Just a few weeks ago, they would have entered a strange village
secure in the knowledge that shelter and food would always be offered to
strangers, no matter from what tribe they came. Now here they were, wondering
if the reception they might receive would be hostile.