Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

Nothing happened. Ambrose had departed. Aware of the astonished looks on the faces of my hosts, I grinned sheepishly and shrugged, then picked up my mug again and moved towards the house.

The next hour or so passed pleasantly, despite the fact that we had to communicate by gestures. They fed me well, with roasted venison and fresh- baked bread, and their ale was excellent, foamier and more yeasty yet paler than our own beer, and when I indicated to them at last that I must leave, they packed more food and a large earthen jug of ale for me to take with me. I bade them farewell in the early afternoon and made my way back alone towards the barn where Ambrose and I had spent the previous night, waving back to all of them before I entered the long, tunnelled road that masked them finally from view.

Ambrose had found the pack-horses where we had left them, although both of us had privately suspected that they might have been found and either stolen or killed by the fleeing raiders. By the time I reached the barn he had unsaddled the poor brutes and was in the process of rubbing them down. I gave him the bag of food and the jug of beer I had brought with me, and while he was eating I completed the horses' grooming, then led them to a nearby brook to drink, after which I fed each of them a small amount of grain in their nosebags. As we waited for the beasts to finish eating, I asked Ambrose whether he thought the raiders might have been part of the mercenary force maintained by Vortigern. He shook his head emphatically.

"No," he grunted. "All Vortigern's men, locals and mercenaries, wear his colours—a square of red cloth bearing a yellow trefoil flower—sewn on their left shoulders." He reached into his saddlebag and produced one of the squares, handing it to me, and as soon as I saw it I recalled having seen the device in Verulamium years earlier. "Besides," he went on, "we're still too far south."

"How do you know that?" I handed the emblem back to him and he replaced it in his saddlebag before standing up and stretching.

"I know it because Vortigern's Danes, under Hengist, are too efficient. No raiders would dare intrude into their territories. They've been there for years, remember, and Vortigern relies on their savagery to keep his borders safe. The word went out long years ago: Stay clear of Northumbria! The raiders do, all of them."

"Do you think, then, those people will come back this way again, in force?"

"They might, but I doubt it." He began removing the nosebags, and I stepped to help him as he continued speaking. "The whole countryside knows they're about by this time, I should think. I imagine those two young lads we saw at the farm would have been sent out to spread the word quickly enough to the neighbouring farms. Now they're forewarned, our Saxon visitors will take little pleasure in seeking further adventure around here. We bloodied them to good effect, don't forget. One man in two or three is a high price to pay for an aborted raid. My guess is they'll move on and try somewhere else."

I glanced up at the sky above the clearing. "How long till darkness falls, do you think? Five hours? Six?"

"At least. Probably more. It's June. We've light enough to make ten miles and more before we need to look for a place to camp. Finish this beer and we'll leave the jug here in the barn."

We busied ourselves replacing our saddles and pack gear, and as he pulled himself up into his stirrups Ambrose opined that we were still at least two days south of Vortigern's borders. Nevertheless, by the campfire later that evening, he took the precaution of attaching Vortigern's colours to his left shoulder, sewing the patch of cloth securely to his cloak with large, looping stitches of coarse yarn.

He had been exactly correct. In the middle of the morning of the third day after his prediction, we were challenged as we emerged from a thicket and entered a short-grassed clearing, and moments later we found ourselves surrounded by a ring of hard-faced men, all heavily armed and helmed, most of them holding short, heavy-looking bows, drawn arrows pointing towards us.

The obvious leader of the group, a medium-sized fellow in a massively horned helmet and a long tunic of heavy ring mail, did not know quite what to make of us. His leader's colours were bright on my brother's shoulder, but our Roman-style armour and our armoured cavalry mounts marked us as aliens. The man clearly did not know whether to kill us out of hand, or to accept the evidence of amity on Ambrose's shoulder. Ambrose relieved him of the need to decide.

"Ambrose of Lindum," he shouted. "Seeking Vortigern." I recognised only the names.

The leader scowled. "Ambrose of Lindum is dead, years ago," he growled. Again, I recognised only the name but guessed at the rest from the tone of voice.

Ambrose reached up and removed his Roman helmet with its obscuring, protective flaps.

"Ranulf," he said, using Latin for my benefit. "Don't you know me?"

It was a pleasure to meet Vortigern once again, especially since he recalled me clearly despite the lapse of years since he and I had met. Moreover, his delight in Ambrose's return was total, spontaneous and unfeigned, although it faded slightly, to be sure, when he discovered that Ambrose had returned only to bid him hail and farewell again.

I found the king greatly changed since our first meeting. Still handsome and regal in his bearing, he had matured well during the years since Verulamium and the Great Debate convened by Germanus. His hair had turned from iron grey to silver, but he had retained all of it, so that it hung thickly to frame his noble face, and he now wore a full beard, carefully trimmed and groomed. His shoulders were unbowed by advancing years and he stood almost as tall as my brother and I, holding himself at all times in an erect, military posture, shoulders squared, so that he appeared to dominate every gathering. But it was in his manner that I thought to detect a change. When first we had met, I had been favourably impressed by the ease, the appearance of casual repose, that he had shown to everyone with whom he dealt, treating each man, bishop or man-at-arms, with an easygoing goodwill that spoke of confidence and boundless self-assurance. My admiration of his dignity and self-possession had been unstinting then, causing me to think of him as "regal," a word I would have applied to no man before that time. Outwardly, Vortigern the King seemed at first glance to be as he had been in Verulamium, urbane and gracious, good-humoured and at ease with all around him, yet I sensed undertones of something new in his demeanour, a reticence I had not marked before; a tendency to veer away from certain topics so effectively that they were never raised to prominence. I said nothing of these vague misgivings to my brother. I merely watched, and listened closely, and felt somehow disturbed.

We remained with Vortigern and his people for the first two weeks of June and he entertained us lavishly, demonstrating himself to be a gracious and noble host. As we talked, he came to appreciate the advantages of having Ambrose, a trusted friend, in charge of friendly forces, cavalry in particular, guarding the western and southwestern approaches to his lands. He had troubles enough to occupy him to the north and east and south, he told us, keeping his borders, sea and land, free from trespass by Picts, Anglians, Jutes and the ubiquitous Saxons.

He had seen our cavalry in Verulamium, of course, but like Ambrose, he had failed entirely to understand the power it represented. Now, impressed by Ambrose's radiant enthusiasm in speaking of our strength, Vortigern examined our horses and our equipment and accessories minutely, paying close heed to our stirrups and how they were adjustable to each man's leg length on our saddles. I showed him everything ungrudgingly, secure in the knowledge that he lacked the resources, if not the will, to develop similar powers of his own.