Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"And yet his people, his supporters, like this captain of his, move among the people here quite openly?"

"Oh aye, it has not come to open hostility. Not yet."

"But it's inevitable, you believe?"

Ambrose nodded. "It would seem so."

I sighed. "So it appears our father was correct, when all is said and done. Even despite the integrity of a friend such as Hengist, Vortigern courted death when first he brought the Danes into his land."

"Aye. I have no doubt of it now, although I've argued long and hard with you about it in the past. I've changed my mind within the past few days, after the conversations I have had with people whose opinions and judgment I long since learned to trust. Vortigern himself may not live to see it happen, and Hengist certainly will not, since he would and must die rather than permit it, but the day is coming when the Dane will rule alone in Northumbria and Vortigern's folk will be dispossessed and reduced to the status of servitors."

"Slaves."

He frowned quickly. "No, not slaves. I doubt it will come to that. But they will be reduced to servitude."

"Hmm. So what will happen to the man who killed tonight?"

Ambrose raised one eyebrow. "It already has, I should think. You'll see him hanging from a tree somewhere tomorrow, in plain view. I said Hengist is growing old. He's far from toothless yet. The first step towards placating those offended by the killing here tonight must be the public and immediate punishment of the offender. He was probably hanged as soon as they took him out of the gathering. What he did was indefensible. It was also political, and probably deliberately planned."

"What, for effect? Are you suggesting the man made a deliberate sacrifice of his own life for Horsa?"

"Aye, to make a point, stir up the other men, increase the tension. It's highly probable, and according to what I have heard today he's not the first to have done so."

"But why? What possible inducement could bring a man to give up his life merely to achieve a political effect? How could he think to benefit from such a course?"

Ambrose was regarding me with what I took to be wry amusement.

"There could be many reasons, Cay. These men are Danes. Their ways and customs, even their beliefs, are vastly different from ours. Perhaps he thought his sacrifice might be rewarded in some afterlife Elysium. Or he might have purchased some preferment for his family. Perhaps he died willingly in return for an extended time of pleasure with a group of courtesans. Who knows? Men have differing values, and to men like these Danes death is of little import. All we may be sure of is that he knew well before he did the deed that he would die for it."

My mind was racing, reviewing and reassessing my earlier conclusions about the stability of Vortigern and Hengist's situation. Ambrose sat watching me.

"What is it?" he asked eventually. "You look as though every gear in your mind is threatening to lock up."

"Camulod," I said. "I'm trying to assess the threat to Camulod; the timing of it."

"What threat? Horsa is no threat to us in Camulod. When Hengist dies, before or after Vortigern—it makes no difference—Horsa will have his hands full here. He will have no easy task imposing himself upon the structure left here by his father, and not all the Danes will follow him. Hengist and Vortigern, between them, have taken care of that with land grants and careful planning these past few years. The prime Danish lands, the most arable, are held by Hengist's most loyal veterans and are carefully distributed among the lands held by Vortigern's own people. The holdings are set out like a gaming board, in blocks, so that each Dane has a Briton north, south, east and west of his holdings and each Briton has Danes in the same positions. None of them will bend the knee or meekly give away his lands to Horsa and his people, so Horsa must accept the status quo and win new lands of his own for his people, or he must go to war against his own."

"How likely is he to do that, to go to war?"

Ambrose shrugged. "I have no idea, nor does anyone to whom I have spoken. There is great hope, naturally enough, that he will opt for the former course and settle his levies on outlying lands, keeping his father's holdings for himself as he's entitled to, but the final answer to that lies with Horsa, and he appears to like it that way. Hence his absence. He has not set foot here in Vortigern's enclosure for more than a year, ignoring his father's summonses. Hengist stopped sending them as soon as he discerned that Horsa would not obey them. Anyway, everyone is waiting now to see what happens at this summer's end. If the incoming raiders winter in Britain again this year, as they seem to do now every year, Horsa will stay out in the marshes, fighting through the winter."

"What about Vortigern's own sons? They are not here, either. There are two of them, you told me."

"Were. One of them is dead. Areltane, the younger of the brothers. He was killed in a raid, two years ago. The other, Cuthbert, is campaigning in the north, against the Picts and Anglians up there. He is expected daily, and he is, of course, the other element in this volatile mix—flint against Horsa's steel. Each time they meet, sparks fly, although they once were friends."

"Did you not tell me Areltane was the more able of the two?"

"That's right, I did, and he was. Had Areltane survived, no one would have concerns about Horsa. Areltane had his measure. But Areltane is dead."

"And Cuthbert is not strong enough?"

"No, he is not. Not that he lacks in strength per se, but he lacks wisdom and discretion. He's a hothead, and none too bright; brave to a fault, but headstrong, as I said, and as unbiddable as Horsa. In a confrontation between the two, I would wager on Horsa."

"Unfortunate. Have you talked to Vortigern about these things?"

Ambrose shook his head. "No. He's made no mention of it and it's not my place to bring it up without some indication that he is willing to discuss it."

"How can you say that? You are his friend."

"Because he is the king. Besides, your tense is wrong. I used to be one of his captains, but I'm no longer bound to him in any way. That makes me a mere guest here, just like you. No more than that, save that Vortigern has known me longer and once trusted me. Now he can no longer do that—trust me, I mean. As king, he can afford few friends, and friends may turn suddenly to enemies when kingdoms are at stake."

"Hmm. How long, then, must we remain here? We should return home, don't you agree? Vortigern has no need of guests, it seems to me, distracting him from his legitimate concerns."

My brother sat gazing at me for long moments then, gnawing the inside of his cheek, but then he nodded in agreement. On the fourth day after that, having made our farewells to Vortigern and Hengist and obtained their goodwill and permission to travel once more across their lands, we set out again for Camulod.

We experienced no trouble on the road that was not caused by weather. Perhaps the sight of us, armoured as we were on our large horses, riding side by side with long, strung bows, was sufficient to discourage anyone who might have sought to hinder us, but we rode unmolested across the breast of Britain.

The weather through which we rode, however, was atrocious. It was the month of June and approaching July, and our expectation had been of high summer weather. That year, however, June was unique in its malevolence. We had had fine weather on our outward journey, in late May, with heavy rain at times, certainly, but for the most part we had ridden beneath sunny skies, enjoying the green lushness of the forest and the cleared farmlands we passed, and the singing of the birds that filled the air of Britain: skylark and blackbird, thrush and linnet and a hundred others.