Jack Whyte - The Eagles' Brood

I slept beneath the dripping trees the second night, no more than twenty miles south-west of Ilchester, having given up all hope of reaching Isca that day, and was surprised to find I slept quite well, wrapped more or less warmly in my blanket-like cloak, which was lined with softer wool than the coarse nap that formed its exterior. Everything was wet, however, even far in from the road in the depths of the forest, and I had no hope of lighting a fire. As I rode on the following day, the unrelenting cold finally began to penetrate the warmth of my heavy, weatherproof clothing and I felt myself becoming chilled, bone deep, until I began to shiver uncontrollably. I knew I had to find shelter, a dry place where I could light a fire and dry out my damp, cold clothes. The rain blew endlessly into my face in icy spikes, chilled by a blustery wind that swirled around me and my horse as though determined to obliterate us, the last two living creatures in this grey, sodden world. I had not met a living soul on the road since leaving Camulod— only mad people and soldiers on urgent duty would brave weather like this without dire need.

By mid-afternoon, my self-absorbed misery had become so all-encompassing that I nearly passed by an old, dilapidated road house, set so far back from the roadside that I had almost not seen it. I reined in my horse and peered at the place through the curtain of driving rain that obscured it. It looked unprepossessing; neither clean nor friendly, and normally I would not have considered stopping there, but I was cold, wet and miserable, and I told myself that the dismal weather would have made even Camulod look dingy and uninviting.

I tethered my horse in the yard, removed my bow, quiver and pack roll, and entered the building without seeing one person. The mansio was small. Its atrium had been roofed over, creating a central hall two storeys high, with covered stairs leading to the second floor where a passageway protected by a waist-high wooden wall ran around the sides of the enclosure, giving access to a number of rooms that were presumably for the guests. The large, roofed space was warm and dry at least, if very dark, and from the ground floor area passages and doorways radiated in all directions. A countered space against the west wall was obviously intended to serve as some kind of porter's or receiver's station, but it was untenanted, although it was lit by two small tripods, each holding the dwindling, messy stubs of four fat, sputtering tallow candles.

I called for attention and eventually the proprietor came striding from the rear of the place to greet me, appearing surprised that anyone should be travelling on such a night. He was a heavy-set, red-faced fellow with a wispy beard and a truculent, ill-tempered look about him.

"Good day to you. I need a room. One with a warm bed and a door that locks."

He eyed me, taking me in from the top of my dripping head to the soles of my chilled feet, and nodded. "Aye," he grunted, "you do, and towels and a large fire and hot food. I'll have my wife prepare them for you. How long will you stay with us?"

I grinned at him through chattering teeth, relieved by the warmth of his greeting, which his initial expression had not led me to expect. "Perhaps forever; at least until I'm warm again and the rain abates, but probably only until tomorrow."

He nodded and, beckoning me to follow him, led me directly upstairs to a pleasant, clean-smelling room where, during the next quarter-hour, I unpacked my belongings and spread them out to air, having carried all of them in from the yard in three journeys, leaving my horses in the care of a groom who seemed to know what he was doing.

Later, I went downstairs to eat a simple but large and nourishing meal that I had been savouring for some time thanks to the delicious smells of roasting meat that drifted up from the kitchens towards my room on the second level. Since I was the only guest in the hostelry, my host and his wife, whom I discovered were named Lars and Brunna, invited me to eat with them, making a fourth with Brunna's brother Eric. I was glad to accept their invitation and the warmth of their company. The food was excellent, and accompanied by a delicious, full-bodied red wine, and I found myself thoroughly enjoying the companionship of these strangers whose comportment bore little of the normal attitude of mansio keepers towards their guests. When the meal was over, there was still wine in the great jug, so we lingered at the table, comfortable and friendly in the ample light of a dozen candles and a huge, roaring fire, while the deluge continued outside with an energy that kept the sound of water pouring from the roof a constant accompaniment to our talk.

Brunna's brother Eric, I discovered, was a trader who travelled the length and breadth of the southern region, operating from his home close to the town of Isca. He was a droll fellow who kept all of us entertained with tales of his adventures on the roads. I asked him eventually whether the growing Saxon presence in the south-east was injuring his ventures, and he looked at me and laughed.

"Injuring them? From what viewpoint, my friend?"

I was perplexed by both his answer and his humour. "From the point of view of interfering with your livelihood, I suppose," was the only response I could summon. And at that he laughed again, even more loudly than he had at first.

"Interfering with it? May the god of travellers protect you, friend, they are my livelihood."

I was astounded. "What do you mean?" I asked him, spluttering in my confusion. "They are Outlanders, savages. They come here with no purpose other than to kill and plunder and pillage. How can you trade with them and hope to continue living? They are alien, without honour."

The smile disappeared from his face at my words. "No, sir. they are none of those things to me. I have never received any ill at their hands. In the communities they have set up along the Saxon Shore they live as well, and as peacefully, as any in this land—more so, indeed, than most. They are mere people—men and women like any others— who have come here seeking a place to live and prosper, and they have need of my goods, so I trade with them as I would with anyone else who has the wherewithal to trade."

Neither his sister nor her husband spoke at this, and"! looked at them for support against his ravings. They sat content, however, not put out at all, and Lars looked at me and shrugged and smiled as if to say, "I agree with him. How can I then gainsay him?"

I sat there in amazement, pondering Eric's words and the reactions of his kinfolk, and realizing I had nothing more to say. Upon hearing his opinion stated so simply, I had no other choice than to believe him, although my training would not permit that.

"Nonsense," I continued eventually, trying to keep my voice even. "What you say is self-serving, Eric. Admit that, at least. You are fortunate in that they need what you have, otherwise you would not be here this night. These people are invaders. The most vicious of their kind in all the Western Empire. They have been terrorizing the whole country for decades."

He shook his head, completely unabashed by my words, and as I listened to his response I felt myself grudgingly acknowledging the truth of what he had to say, although I found it unpalatable.

"No, friend Merlyn, you are selecting your truth to make your own point. You said it yourself. They have been coming here for decades, but for how many decades? How long has the Saxon Shore been called the Saxon Shore? A hundred years? More? Are we to believe these people, these Saxons, have been coming and going constantly through all that time, raiding and leaving?" He smiled and shook his head again. "I know Saxon settlements not fifty miles from here, to the eastward, where there are children being born to Saxons who were born right there.