Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

“May it be so,” Morfydd murmured.

“As for Thorfinn,” her husband said on, “he was a strong man. He survived longer than any could have believed. In two days the rot was in his belly and half Nantes could hear his screaming. The tale is that those sounds of agony eased Sigebert for the pain of his gashed face more than wine or drugs-which he downed in quantity-and that he cursed for disappointment when Black Thorfinn was silent at last.”

For a heartbeat of the silence of grimness, naught happened in that room of Howel’s hall. Naught-save that the whalebone game-piece in Cormac’s fingers cracked across, and blood oozed from under his thumbnail, and Wulfhere’s massy muscles quivered with stress and the butt-end of the spear he held was impossibly driven deep into the hard-trodden earth of Howel’s floor. Neither man noticed what he had done. Wulfhere’s hand dropped from the spearshaft, and it stood there, and Morfydd stared in some awe.

“Blood of the gods!” Cormac snarled, snapping to his feet and his face awrithe with passion. The black link-mail of his body chimed harshly. “The filthy dog! The gods-bereft alley scavenger-Sigebert shall die! Were he Emperor of Rome, were he High-king of Eirrin, he would die for this!”

“Aye,” Wulfhere said, and his voice was that of a mean old hound as he leaned forward over the point of the spear. His bristling beard covered the leaf-shaped head. Hot, volcanic flames burned in his eyes and his voice quivered in rage. “I’ll cut the blood eagle on that trollspawn, with my own hands. It’s a thing I never did afore to any man. I never hated any enough. Yet I swear- Sigebert shall have that death.”

Morfydd had turned pale, and for another long while there was only silence.

Howel said, “Then if ye’d not heard that, I have word of another enemy to ye both that perchance ye’ve not heard either. Hengist is abroad.”

“Hengist!”

The startled echo of that name came from Wulfhere the Dane. He stared, and Howel of Bro Erech saw how the name alone drove thoughts of vengeance on Sigebert One-ear from Wulfhere’s mind. He took his hand from the spear-which stood, noted by all but him-to pace closer with his deep interest in his eyes. He thrust his massive head forward, as though better to hear.

“Ye be certain of this, Prince? Hengist? Somewhere in these parts?”

“Nay, somewhere to the south,” Howel said, rather hurriedly. “He came down the Narrow Sea from Kent with three galleys, and each sail bore the White Horse. My scouts and coast-watchers saw them pass these shores.” He frowned his displeasure. “I put forth in pursuit. Shameful that one should be using home waters with not a by-your-leave! Too, he’d have fetched a mighty ransom, could I have taken him alive-the which I will admit is doubtful. In any case his ships proved too swift for me to catch.”

“ Hengist turned hare? ”

“Surprise is on me,” Cormac said thoughtfully, “that he did not turn back and fight for the mere pleasure of it.”

Prince Howel agreed. “So thought I, knowing his reputation! Surely he had some urgent business to hand. Now word has come back to me that he is guesting , among the Saxons of western Gaul. It’s friends and kin he has among them.”

“Aye, true, he has,” Wulfhere said. “By Wotan! This is good hearing!”

“Ye’ve but now come to these coasts,” Morfydd said. “Strange that ye heard naught of it on the way.”

“Not so, strange. It was by night we traveled, and careful we were by day, to lie well hidden in lonely places. It’s hardly our best fighting condition we’re in at present.”

Wulfhere glowered at the Gael, and spoke from indignance. “But yet ten times better than most! Ah! Hengist and Sigebert both within our reach! That caps it, Cormac! We’ll not be leaving here until we’ve finished with those whoresons!”

“Both of them? God’s light!” Howel laughed merrily. “Your hate for Sigebert I know. What have ye against Hengist, Captain?”

Cormac’s eyes rolled upward. “Och, ye know not what ye ask. I trust ye’ve ample time and to spare for listening.”

“WHAT?” Wulfhere thundered, drowning out Cormac’s voice ere the Gael had finished speaking. “What have I against the swine? Know ye naught of his history, Prince? Hengist is a jute, for one thing, as I am a Dane. There be more death-feuds between our peoples than-than betwixt the Saxons and your own! We Danes moved into Jutland and drove out the Jutes with weapon-steel, generations agone. Some remained… as thralls, or carles or warriors in service to Danish chiefs, and sure it is we found many of their women worth the keeping! Many others fled in ships to the coast of Frisia, a sodden land and no good home. The sea’s an invader that steals the fields little by little. They can either humble themselves to a mean life fishing and fowling, or take to the pirate trade. I’ve no time for Jutes, but I grant ye this: they be not so lacking in manhood that they will choose the former!”

Wulfhere wet his throat and continued.

“Hengist was one of those stayed in Jutland. He served my grandsire, Hnaef. Now, Hnaef’s sister Hildeburg was wed to a Jutish chieftain in Frisia, and there Hnaef went with his hearth-companions-Hengist among them, may monsters eat his corpse!-to visit his brother-in-law. All went well at the beginning. Then, because of bad blood and old feuds, trouble arose. The damned swinish Jutes…”

Wulfhere paused, swallowing, his face having gone dark with fury. “-the pig-sired Jutes did treachery on their guests and attacked them in whelming force in the night. Though they had been surprised, the Danes of course got themselves into battle-order and made ready to sell their lives at high price. They fought. Grandsire Hnaef was cut down and slain, early in that fight. His companions were grief-stricken-and enraged! They fought like blood-hungry demons, they did, slaying and hacking and slaying until the Jutes gave back before them. Then came Finn, the Jutish chieftain, he who had done death on his wife’s own brother. That leering traitor offered them their lives an they’d swear peace and friendship! Aye! Now I put it to ye, Prince. What is a man to reply to such an insult as that?” Wulfhere shook his head. “Yet, the alternative was death. Too, Hengist was now become leader of the Danish company. Ye see? That damned Jute. Belike he felt his Jutish blood speak to him, though blood-ties should never count above loyalty to a chieftain.”

Howel made a faint grimace at that. Cormac was Cormac; set of face and slitted of eye, he showed nothing. Still, he felt as Howel did. They were Celts. Ties of blood and kinship to them were supreme.

“The snorting pig prevailed upon the Danes to accept Finn’s terms! A shameful, disgraceful thing it was, but never has Hengist known what scruples are save for tripping better men with. He’s a Jute . They suck treachery with their mothers’ milk. Worse than Franks, the Jutes.” Wulfhere paused then, seeing that Howel, who knew more of the ax-throwing Franks than he did of Jutes, was openly incredulous. “Aye,” Wulfhere repeated. “Worse than Franks, Prince! Anyhows-Hnaef’s band was not altogether lost to shame. They gave no thought to returning to their own country with such a tale. Among the isles and lagoons of Frisia they remained, living as neighbours to Finn’s Jutes.”

Wulfhere paced a step, swung back to fix fjordblue eyes on Howel. “That did not last long. Word of what had befallen wended back to Hnaef’s kinsmen in the north of Jutland. Naturally they made ready to pay Finn and his fellows a visit, and in numbers, all armed and war-shirted.”