The Hallowed Isle Book Two (19 page)

Hæthwæge was saying something. He forced himself to attend.

“You are tired. Come into the hall.”

He nodded gratefully and followed her.

Inside it was cool and dim. As his vision adjusted, light from the opened smoke vents beneath the eaves at either end of the hall showed him the carved and painted pillars that upheld the peaked roof and the curtained compartments to either side. But he had become accustomed to separate sleeping chambers and columns of stone. Then the scent, composite of woodsmoke and ale, dog and old leather and the sweat of men, caught at his throat, and for a moment he was thirteen years old once more. Someone opened a side door, and a rush of fresh air brought him back to the present.

“There are only half a dozen men now in the houseguard, and most of those are old,” Hæthwæge was saying. “He gave the younger men land to farm. And there is only one cook and three kitchen thralls, but I have asked some of the women to come and help us.”

Oesc nodded, thinking he would have to use much of the treasure Artor had given him just to set things in order here. Compared to the crowded, noisy place he remembered, this was like a hall of ghosts.

His footsteps echoed on the planking as he passed the boards and trestles for the tables that leaned in stacks against the walls, and he thought of colored mosaic floors. The raised stone hearth nearer the doorway was cold, but a little blue smoke rose from smoldering coals in the one before the high seat at the end of the hall. He remembered the clear light that fell through windows of nubbled glass, and Artor's marble throne.

The wisewoman paused as if she expected him to sit there. Oesc looked up at the serpentine carving on the posts, worn where Hengest had leaned against them, and at the cushion that still bore the impress of his body, and shook his head.

“Not yet. It has been a long time, and my soul is still stretched like a drying hide between here and Londinium. Build up the fire and let me sit on a bench beside it. I'll take the high seat when we drink Hengest's funeral ale.”

She frowned at him thoughtfully and handed him the meadhorn once more. From outside came the sound of many voices. The light from the door flickered as if someone were hovering there.

“The people are gathering, wanting to see you. Two lambs are already roasting, and tonight you will feast. When you are ready, come to me and I will tell you how your grandfather died.”

It was late before the shouting and the singing died away in the hall. But when the last of the revelers set off for his home or rolled up in his cloak beside the hearth, as Hæthwæge had known he would, Oesc came to her.

He had still been a boy when he left them, with the soft flesh of youth covering his bones. Now the strong structure of his face made the resemblance to his grandfather clear, all the more so because he looked so tired.

“Was it too bad?” He would have had more than enough ale in the hall. She dipped some of the mint tea that had been steeping on the hearth into a beaker and offered it.

Oesc sighed. “The skin of the boy who lived here nine years ago no longer fits, and the man he became is some sort of Saxon-British hybrid who doesn't fit anywhere. I told them I was tired from the journey, and they made allowances, but I am afraid my grandfather's thanes will think they have got a bad bargain in me.”

“You have half a moon until the feast of Ostara when the æthelings and freemen will gather to drink Hengest's funeral ale. It will be better by then.”

“I hope so! Otherwise I might as well lay myself in his mound . . .” He took a long drink of the tea and settled back on his stool. “This place is as I remember, and so are you. Talk to me, bind me back into this world again. . . .”

At least he knew what he needed, she thought, watching him. She would have to shape the man as she had shaped the boy, but it would be harder now because he was not so much scarred as armored by his time in the British lands.

“When one has a slow illness, or is very old, there comes a time when the spirit turns inward. Mostly our folk go quickly, in battle or sudden sickness, but I have seen this often enough so that when Hengest began to drift away from us I understood what it was. His health was no worse, nor was he in pain. He ate less and slept more, and delegated most of the household decisions to Guthlaf or to me. When he sat in his high seat he spoke of the battles of his youth sometimes, or of you, but as time went on, he mostly stayed in his bed.”

Oesc frowned unhappily. “I should have been here for him. I knew how old he was—I should have begged Artor to let me visit him.”

“It would have made no difference. It was that boy whose skin is too small for you that he remembered, not the man you are now.”

“Whoever
he
is . . .” muttered Oesc, and refilled his cup. Then he straightened, obviously trying to lift himself out of the mood. “It is hard to picture Hengest, the conqueror of Britannia, dying in his bed like a woman or a thrall.”

Hæthwæge shook her head. “He did not. There came a day when the hills echoed with the cries of new lambs, and the sky with the calls of returning waterfowl. There was a wind, and we opened all the doors to air out the hall.” She shut her eyes for a moment, remembering the brilliance of the sky, and how life had tingled in that air. “The kitchen thrall who used to bring Hengest his porridge called me. The king was sitting up, asking for a basin to wash in and the Frankish lapped tunic with the gold borders to wear. The folk here rejoiced, thinking that he was getting well at last.”

“Where did he want to go?”

“He asked me to take him to the god-grove, and to bring the Spear.”

Oesc's eyes widened, and his gaze went to the shrouded shape by the door. Hæthwæge knew he was remembering how his other grandfather had died. In the same, measured tone, she went on.

They had brought a lamb, and the old king cut its throat and splashed its blood on the god-posts and the stones. She remembered how the air around them grew heavy, as if something had awakened and was watching as Hengest set his back against the ash tree and pulled open his tunic to bare his breast. The green shadows had given his old skin a sickly pallor, as if he were dead already.

And then, as he had commanded, she scratched Woden's knot into his belly just below the ribs, and tied the rags with which she stanched the bleeding onto the branches of the ash tree. And at that a great wind had shivered the new leaves.

“The god was there,” she said softly. “The offering was accepted. But Hengest said that as the god had made him live so long already he would let him choose his own moment to claim him. And so he closed up his tunic and we went back to the hall.

“He sat down in his high seat and told them to build up the fire, but he would take neither food nor drink. Some of the men wanted me to force him to lie down, but the warriors of the houseguard backed me. They understood very well.”

“How long did it take him to die?” asked Oesc in a still voice.

Hæthwæge drew a deep breath, remembering the old king sitting like a carven image in his bloodstained tunic, listening to Andulf sing of Sigfrid and Hagano, of Offa of Angeln and Scyld Sceafing, one of the few heroes who lived to be old. He had sung of Eormanaric. He sang until even his trained voice grew hoarse and Hengest told him to be still. That was the sixth night. Three days longer the king stayed, without eating or sleeping. By then he had stopped speaking as well, and only the occasional movement of his breast told them that he lived still.

“Nine days and nights altogether Hengest sat there, and when the tenth morning dawned, although he had not moved, we saw that his breath no longer stirred his beard. The god had come for him at last.”

“And
that
is the high seat you want me to sit in?” Oesc said unsteadily.

“You will sit there, and Hengest's spirit will guide you,” said Hæthwæge with the certainty of prophecy.

“I drink to Hengest, wisest of warriors, first to be king in the British lands—” Aelle lifted his drinking horn, and the others followed his example with a roar of approval.

Oesc, sitting on a bench before the high seat, gazed around him at the men crammed into the hall. They had begun to arrive just after the Ostara offerings, when by custom kings feasted with their chieftains, to celebrate Hengest's funeral ale.

He had expected Aelle to bring his son Cymen, and Ceretic to come over from Venta, and he knew that Hengest's thanes, Hrofe Guthereson and Hæsta and the others, would be there. But he was surprised by how many others made the journey—old men who had fought in Hengest's battles, and young men to whom they were legends. There was even a small party from Gallia, bearing the condolences of Chlodovechus, the Frankish king.

Each day more tents went up in the field beyond the hall as new groups settled in. It was just as well that Artor had gifted him with so much treasure, he thought ruefully, for this feast would exhaust their stores. He did not delude himself that all these folk had come for his sake. Hengest had been the father of the Saxon migration. With his death an era was ended.

Many times that night the meadhorn had gone round. Men laughed and said it was time the hall had a queen to honor the warriors. Hengest had been an old wolf, who had rather embrace his sword than a woman, but Oesc still had juice in his loins. He should take a wife—the talk grew ribald with speculation. Aelle had granddaughters, girls of good Saxon stock who would give him strong sons. Ceretic had a little daughter, but it would be a dozen winters before she was husband-high. The lords from the Anglian lands suggested that one of the Icelinga girls could bring him a useful alliance. Even Chlodovechus's representative joined the discussion, pointing out that his master also had marriageable daughters, and Cantuware possessed fine harbors that could benefit from Frankish trade.

Oesc shook his head, laughing. “Nay, I must see how my grandfather's high seat fits me before I seek someone to share it. Give me a year or three to settle into my kingship. I promise you I will consider an alliance then.”

Hrofe began to talk of how Hengest had married his daughter Reginwynna to the Vor-Tigernus, and Oesc sat back with a sigh. For so long, even the idea of marriage had been out of the question; the thought of a connection more meaningful than his brief encounters with whores or serving-maids took some getting used to. More important still, any marriage he made would commit him to an alliance. If Artor had had another sister—his lips twitched as he remembered the overwhelming beauty of Leudonus's queen. Even if Morgause had been free, it would take a brave man to husband her. She was fertile, though. It was said that nine months after the feast of Lugus she too had been brought to bed of a fine boy that her husband accepted as his own.

Lost in his own thoughts, he did not realize that Andulf had begun to sing

It was the tale of the fight at Finnesburgh, the first of Hengest's great deeds, though Hengest himself had never boasted about it. That was a hard and bitter story, of the time when Hengest had led the warband of the Dane-king Hnaef on visit to his brother-in-law the Frisian Finn, and when enmity between Finn's men and Hnaef's had become warfare, first forced the Frisian king to divide the steading between the two sides and keep them through the winter, and when the Danes insisted on revenge, broken the peace-troth pledged with Finn in order to avenge his lord.

Hengest had done the same thing again, he thought, when for the sake of his people he turned against the Vor-Tigernus and attacked the British princes. Oesc looked up at the empty high seat, contemplating once more the stature of the man who had occupied it.
What would I do, faced with such a decision?
he wondered then.
If I am ever forced to choose between my own folk and Artor, what will I do?

Andulf ended the story of the slaying of the Frisians, and once more the meadhorn went round. The tales of Hengest's deeds had inspired his mourners to vows of emulation, most of them, as might have been expected, at the expense of their British neighbors.

“This is my oath, in Woden's name—” Ceretic lifted the horn. “To push the borders of the West Saxon lands outward until Dumnonia is ours, to found a line of kings who shall rule in this island for a hundred generations, to leave a name that shall be remembered as that of the father of this island's kings!”

That did not leave much scope for the other dynasties, and there were a few raised eyebrows, but neither was it much of a threat to the present balance of power. Oesc waited with growing apprehension for the horn to come round to him. Even when he took it in his hand he did not know what he was going to say.

For a long moment he stared at the empty high seat, then he turned to face his guests once more.

“I have fought in battles and killed enemies,” he said slowly, “but all my great deeds are still in the future. I am too new in my lordship to make great boasts for my people. I was not here at Hengest's death to take his blessing. To sit in his seat without having performed some great exploit would be overweening pride. This therefore, is my boast. I will go from this place now, at night's high noon, and sit out upon my grandfather's grave mound. If I can sit in that high seat without scathe until dawn, I will claim his place as king.”