Saxon

Saxon

Copyright

Copyright © 2016 by Sam Shamrock

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN # 978-1-365-48546-6

Lulu Press, Inc.

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Raleigh, NC 27607

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Part I – The Fall of Brittania

Chapter 1 - An Oath of Vengeance

Eadric plunged his sword into the blood-drenched soil as he fell to his knees and screamed in rage and mourning. For a brief moment the metallic din of weapon meeting weapon and the cries of fallen men fell silent. All he heard was his own chilling voice as it released the pain and anger gripping the core of his existence. That sorrowful howl promised more vengeance than any uttered word ever could. 

His cry reverberated through the soul of every man present, whether they had heard it or not. As one, the barbarian warriors knew that their leader had fallen. With brutal precision and renewed stamina, the Saxons systematically began to annihilate their enemy as they sought retribution.

Eadric’s blade still vibrated as he gripped the hilt and pulled it from the earth. His senses allowed him once more to perceive the battleground symphony as he rose from his knees, sword in hand and searched for a more deserving target to strike than the land which he was fighting for.

The smell of sweat on leather permeated the air as his barbarian horde prepared for their inexorable triumph. The Saxons could sense the fear in their Briton enemies and even the horses on both sides became restless. Their neighing added to the battleground cacophony of men’s shouts and conflicting weapons. Heavily armoured in metal breastplates, helmets and newly forged swords the Britons were still no match for their leather-clad compatriots, who armed with their large and clumsy barbarian swords used their strength and rage to overcome the disciplined Briton military ranks. 

Purposefully mounting his horse, Eadric glanced over the carnage and cadavers that surrounded him and despite the confusion the theatre of war offered, sought the man amidst the throngs of soldiers against whom he had laid his vengeful oath. With Vortigern in his line of sight, Eadric charged, descending on his nemesis with ice cold fury and focus. The speed and force with which he executed his vengeful strike knocked Vortigern clear off his heavily armoured steed.

Once Vortigern’s men witnessed their leader fall, their short-lived expectancy of victory and reward left them with sobering abruptness and as word of the event spread, so began their cowardly defection. Eadric dismounted once more and picking up Vortigern’s severed head impaled it on one of his men’s spears, in full view of all who dared to look upon it.

Vortigern’s head served as a grim totem of what was to come. His successor smiled at the sight, briefly relishing the thrill of instant promotion, before ordering the remaining soldiers’ prompt retreat. They were an expensive commodity and he wanted enough of them spared for future requirements.   

Arthurus made so hasty his escape that he had put enough distance between himself and the young barbarian for Eadric to be unable to mount his horse and successfully pursue him. Although Arthurus wisely chose to extend his newly found status as leader of the Northumbrian army, he had also foolishly made the most powerful adversary of his mortal existence. For Eadric, having slain Vortigern was only the beginning of his oath of vengeance, he would continue to appease his bloodlust until every man affiliated with the former leader had been obliterated too.

In the fog of war the few remaining Britons who were oblivious to Vortigern’s demise continued to fight, but were savagely cut down and torn apart by the wrathful barbarians without mercy or exception. Each Saxon shared the same sentiment as Eadric, revenge and their enemy’s blood was owed to them. Hengest had been the noblest and bravest of leaders, the man who had delivered them from the cold swamplands of Germania to this new land that they would soon make their home and he would be avenged.

Eadric walked over the abundant corpses to where his leader lay. Pain gripped the very core of his existence. He clenched his fists seeking the slightest fragment of release. Not only was Hengest his leader and his mentor, but before him lay the corpse of his father.

Devastated, Eadric once again plunged his blood-encrusted blade into the ground and kneeling beside the body closed his eyes, destroyed by the fact that his father had transcended the earthly realm before fully realising his dream for his people. Never would Hengest’s eyes gaze across the horizon and look over the barbarian kingdoms he had predicted would inhabit the land called Britannia. Never would he experience the raw surge of fulfilment that accompanied the successful accomplishment of his aspirations.

At that moment Eadric struggled with his tormented feelings of forlorn sorrow, determined not to display any weakness before his fellow barbarians, he fought desperately to rather focus on what the god Woden expected of him. Amidst the many memories that flooded his mind of valued moments and exchanges shared with his father, of regret and guilt, he reminded himself that his obligation was to continue in Hengest’s honour and provide for his people the life of abundance that they had fared the seas for.

With his men, he would plunder and raze Britannia taking for the Saxons all the riches and land that they deserved, destroying the inhabitants in the process. The Britons who had taken so much from his people, would now lose everything, and his people, he would provide for them like his father always had. No Saxon under his care would ever sit at the meal table again and have to look into the eyes of their hungry children. They would feast for all their days, every one of them. This land was now theirs and he defiantly dared any man to take from him that which he would kill for. Slowly these thoughts allowed him to feel more powerful and controlled. This was how he had always felt on the battlefield, his self control was as crucial to him as the hefty barbarian sword he carried on his back.  

That oath, uttered from his lips would be the event that transformed a land and all its inhabitants - ally and enemy alike. Hengest and Vortigern’s deathly duet would be the final events of an age past – the age of Britannia and the Roman way of life that had for so long governed it.

In just over a decade two nations had become mortal enemies – each with the desire for the other’s demise. What began as a desperate act to prove his worth and independence from the Empire, became Vortigern’s greatest blunder. Britannia’s most feared leader sought the help of the barbaric Saxons, exchanging land and supplies for military strength. It ended with a reneged treaty, a barbarian revolt, and Britannia left to fend for itself against the very men hired to protect it.

122AD Rome - Emperor Hadrian

Britannia had been under Roman rule since 43AD when it was conquered by Claudius in another desperate act to save both reputation and worth, this time as the leader of the Empire. Currently the Roman Empire finds itself under the control of Hadrian, who succeeded Trajan in 117AD.

Unlike any of his predecessors, Emperor Hadrian took a very serious interest in the Empire. With extensive military experience, brilliant public speaking skills and a keen architectural talent, this ardent philosophy student set out to change the manner in which the empire was both structured and governed.

With an incomparable desire to travel, Hadrian journeyed from province to province examining garrisons and forts and meeting with the military commanders. It was said that of all the Roman Emperors none had spent so little time in Rome and so much time traversing the Empire as did Hadrian. As a result of his lengthy exposure to the public, he brought about amendments which would allow the less privileged citizens a better understanding of the law and their rights.

This Emperor of the people travelled alongside his men, either on foot or on horseback and was rumoured to have given a citizen an instant hearing after she had stopped him in the street and begged his audience.

Controversial for his penchant for both young boys as well as married women, Hadrian shocked even more when he ceased the eastern campaigns started by his adoptive father, the Emperor Trajan. Hadrian had always agreed with Augustus’ belief that the Empire would weaken if it was extended beyond its practical military and economic capabilities; and so sought to consolidate the Empire rather than further extend it. Part of his greater plan was also to build proper boundaries to clearly mark the Empire’s frontiers and he accomplished many engineering and architectural feats during his reign. He was as good a soldier as he was a leader; he brought back strength to the Empire, morale to the military and assurance to the general public.

Hadrian swiftly quashed the Jewish uprising, and cleverly settled matters in Dacia, but it was when word came of trouble in the north of Britannia that he contrived the most extraordinary resolution. To prevent the citizens of Britannia from being attacked and robbed by the barbarians of the north, Hadrian undertook to build a wall that would span 73 miles, the entire length of Britannia, to protect them. Construction began in 122AD and lasted for six years with many legions working on its completion. The wall was almost 10ft wide and between 16ft and 20ft high. Guarded by 1000 men, Hadrian accomplished his objective: to separate the Romans from the barbarians.

Order was restored to Britannia as its once Celtic inhabitants began to enjoy the protection and benefit of being citizens of the Roman Empire.  

400AD - Britannia

Hadrian’s achievements survived the passage of time, as did Rome’s presence and influence in Britannia. All the land south of The Wall was part of the Roman Empire and all free-born Britons born to that land recognised as Roman citizens.

The Empire was driven by a proficient bureaucracy, a system that used coin as payment, unlike the barbarian nations who rewarded trade in kind. Thus, coinage flowed from Rome to Britannia and where currency flows, commerce follows. The Britons paid their taxes, which kept the Roman Economic Machine well oiled and allowed for the import and export of produce. With an abundance of goods flowing into the land and the wealth made from the outgoing goods, markets and trade ports emerged, merchants prospered, consumption increased, and towns bloomed. Homes evolved from modest homesteads to lavish villas.

Wherever a Roman Office of Administration, Justice or Trade was built, a town would soon grow around it. The towns themselves were all inter-connected in the same way that all the Empire’s vassals remained unified with Rome.

Amidst the prosperity, the barbarian threat of the Celts and Picts once more brought fear to those inhabiting the lands closest to the wall. This brief peril was fast thwarted by a military expedition sent to defeat the attackers and drive them from the Western land that they had gradually begun to occupy.

Once more Rome’s authority had proven its worth to the people and all continued without incident. For some though, everyday life was toil and strife no matter the man in occupation of the seat of supremacy.

Drystan! Drystan! Oh my God, Drystan. Linota screamed dropping the heavy urn of water she had been carrying.

The vessel splashed water all down the side of her skirt before smashing to the ground and throwing up a cloud of dust that soon turned to mud. Panic demanded that she remained frozen beside the shattered urn, hope urged her to run.

Only seconds before Drystan had collapsed he had lovingly waved to her as he glanced up and caught sight of her in the early morning light. Smiling and reminiscing to the time she had first seen him she had waved back. Avoiding the numerous twigs and branches that scattered the harsh country side she had briefly glanced down to free her skirt, still enjoying her fond memories. When she sought out her husband’s silhouette harrowing the soil she had seen him fall to his knees clutching his chest. Running as fast as she could without tripping, Linota reached her husband just as he collapsed to the ground. Now the distressed woman knelt beside her husband who lay motionless in the dirt.

Drystan, she whispered, hoping that she was wrong and that the smile she had just received had not been his last.

Oh, God no, please no. She cried, shaking him gently in a futile attempt to rouse him. She pleaded again with the unseen deity, who had forsaken her for her entire life and now when she needed him most would remain with his back to her. She shut her eyes, her resentment for the church a crushing pain in her chest.

Drystan was meant to work the church fields today in order to fulfil their tithe to which they owed the church. Once he was done he would return to his work on the strip fields belonging to the lord on whose land they resided. He would have to work in the time that he had spent at the church and it would be dark when he retuned home, too late for him to work their own tiny patch of soil, the only soil that would produce food that they were permitted to eat. That was the reason, that despite having fallen ill the night before, he awoke in the glimmer of dawn to painstakingly tend the few square feet of hard soil that besides the roughshod structure they dwelled in, very nearly belonged to him. 

Now alongside that tiny wattle, daub and thatch cruck house, lay Drystan - husband, father and serf. Linota glanced at the sheet covered doorway to their home hoping that the children would sleep for a few more moments so that she could be alone with her grief before life had to continue.

She lay across his still chest and wept. The absence of his comforting heartbeat, the only solace she felt many a night when it almost became too heavy a burden to bear. She could always shift closer to him and find solace in that steady heartbeat. For what remained of her pitiful life she would never again hear that comforting sound or receive reassurance like that again. She wept harder, for the loss of her only companion and for the sense of loss for something inside of her that she knew she could never again retrieve.

Mother? her ten year old daughter called.

Amisia, the woman whispered, struggling to maintain control of her voice.

Your father is dead.

The young girl ran over to take a closer look at her father. Almost too afraid to look she stared at her mother’s face instead. Her mother tried a smile, but hard as she fought to control her emotions, the young girl could see through the brave facade.

Amisia began to weep, knowing deep down that her life was going to change considerably. Somehow seeing her mother sad made their situation even more dismal, for Amisia had never seen her mother shed a tear before. She had seen her mother unhappy many times, but nothing ever brought the woman to tears. Not even when their pig, the only source of meat they had, wandered off and did not return, or when they had no food to put on the table and went to bed hungry did her mother ever cry. Amisia had not even seen a tear fall down her mother’s cheek when their infant brother had died before his fifth month.

She glanced again at her father hoping that it was a mistake and that he would get up. He appeared to be sleeping and she almost verbalised this ludicrous fancy, but knew that she would most likely be struck by her mother who had little time for childish sentiment in a moment of crisis. She sat down heavily on the ground and wept beside the body of a father she had never really known that well.

Linota had already begun to pull herself together. Her few brief moments alone with the man she had married were over. She had the remainder of her life to grieve, but she would have to do it at the same time as everything else that needed to be done. She picked up her husband’s tools and began tilling the soil. She glared at her daughter who she briefly resented for cutting short her moment of sorrow and self-pity and decided that there was no time to waste in allocating chores down the line.

Amisia, take another urn down to the river and collect water. Once you are done, you are to begin baking bread. It is gone sunrise and the day is slipping away. While you are inside wake your brother and tell him that now he is to be the man of the house. He is to go over to the church and work in your father’s place this morning. I will work the lord’s land today so I will be out until dark. See that there is a meal ready when I return.

The young girl looked at her mother as though she had in fact struck her. Hot tears still streaming down her face she uttered a muffled Yes, ma’am, and immediately set out to complete the tasks that she had been given.

She wept all the way into the house, wept for all the empty thoughts that plagued her so often when she lay in bed cold and hungry, wondering if life would ever get easier or even a little more bearable. Maybe one day she would lose her childish ability to feel and like her mother, would have no more tears to cry. Then, perhaps, it would be less sad when she went to bed at night.

The young boy of thirteen exited the house no more than ten minutes later, dressed and carrying a cloth which contained a piece of stale rye bread that would make for his midday meal. He looked at the body of his deceased parent once before making the sign of the cross and calling out to his mother, I shall tell Father Benedictus of father’s passing and arrange for his burial while I am at the church, ma’am.

The mother nodded, afraid that if she spoke she would cry and mar her son’s brave maturity and responsibility with her lack of strength and example. Once her daughter had left for the river, she carefully dragged Drystan into her home and heaved him onto the bed. Her hard determination not to succumb to grief gave her the strength to achieve this difficult task.

Perhaps the day would come when everything was done and she would have time to grieve properly, a time to expel the tears that waited each patiently its turn, every one with its own valid reason for existence. Perhaps that day would be when she entered the heaven she heard so often of in church. She hoped that Drystan was there and wished she could ask him what it felt like to have all the food and warmth you needed, to exist with neither exhaustion nor worry.

She shook her head; thinking of such things not only distracted but also made everyday life so much more intolerable. Preparing to leave for the strip farms that she would have to work now that her husband no longer could; Linota clenched a small piece of stale bread to her chest and took one last look around the tiny interior of the house she had become so accustomed to spending her days in. Now she would have to leave this modest haven, early each day, and no matter the weather would have to work to ensure that her family lived. Pulling the sheet aside she grimaced at the brightness, an indication that the day was leaping forward without her - she was already late for her duties. Linota knew nothing about farming - weaving, pottery, baking and cooking were her chores, so it was with a dry throat and the beating heart of trepidation that she ran to the fields to report to the Reeve for duty.

Aw, that’s the second one this week. We’re losing more farmhands than cattle to the winter this year. Well come on then, one of your friends over there will show you what to do. Oh and make sure that you are here on time in future. Those were the only words the Reeve had to offer her after she had told him that she had just lost the man that she had cherished her whole life.

She took a deep breath and walked to the field where one of the men offered her a hoe and a sympathetic nod. The peasants did not talk much while they worked. There was never much to say. They woke early, ate little and worked all day. Life was cruel and short, no one needed to talk about it. To them talking was for the idle, people who had nothing to do but gossip and dream.

It was March; time to spread the marl and manure that had been painstakingly carted to the fields, making it fertile enough to plant in. Linota was told that they would be planting wheat. Tired and aching already, she wondered what bread baked from wheat tasted like. She was certain that it tasted better than the dark bread she ate. Peasant bread was made from bitter rye or barley. Peasants could not grow wheat on their tiny crofts because wheat required fertile land in order to grow. Only barley and rye grew in their crofts and the turnips and leeks they used in pottage, the vegetable and grain soup that the majority of their evening meals comprised of.

Despite her weariness Linota worked the strip of land assigned to her husband, and now to her, as hard as she could. The lord would pay each peasant for the produce that came off the land they worked, that is how they made their money. Of course a large percentage of that went to tax and a tithe of the goods went to the church, which they were not paid for, but the meagre amount that was left belonged to them.

Amisia had watched her mother and indeed helped her, to make bread, cook, weave and craft utensils since she could walk, but the prospect of successfully completing these tasks unaided was suddenly daunting. She flopped to the ground next to the fire, wishing that she could go back to sleep and awaken in a day that had a different outcome to the one that she was currently living.

Her father’s lifeless body lying on the straw bed that he and her mother used to share was the only motivation for her to make haste and prepare the dough for the bread. The actual bread could only be baked in the lord’s kitchen, for peasants were not permitted to own a bread oven. As she glanced at the corpse of her father, her heart beat faster in her chest and suddenly the desire to escape her tiny cruck house outweighed the intimidation of approaching the lord’s villa alone.

The small table in the corner served both as a meal table and as a work station to prepare food. There was only place for two, so each night first Amisia and Gawen would eat, wash up and go to bed and then when their father arrived from the fields he and their mother would take their turn to eat. Amisia recalled how she would often lie in bed and look down from the loft to watch her parents as they quietly ate their meal. She remembered how they used to look at one another, the candlelight dancing in their eyes as they shared a brief moment of respite together. She put the flour back on the shelf and picked up the dish containing the dough which would become the loaf that would feed her family for the next couple of days.

As the young girl walked to the kitchen which was located outside of the main house to prevent fires from ravaging the lord’s home, she saw the woman who lived in the cruck house next to hers on her way there too.

Is your mother ill? the woman asked.

No ma’am, my father passed away this morning and my mother, the tears forced themselves down her cheeks, my mother had to take his place on the fields. She sobbed.

There, there. The neighbour comforted her. If you are to take care of the household chores perhaps it is best I offer you some assistance until you are sure of yourself.

Peasants had learned not to feed grief. Their lives were so full of hardship and sorrow that if they gave it more purchase than what it already so greedily stole, they would be able to do nothing but bathe in their own tears, immobile until Death Himself took them.

Alongside the kitchen was a field of emerald green grass, with a pond that grew lilies. Amisia had always found that piece of the villa’s garden, the only garden that she had ever seen, to be the most beautiful and unreal place on earth. She had gazed upon that very garden, in her dreams so many times, but even in her dreams she had never dared to forget her place and step onto that lush green carpet. A group of pristinely dressed young girls were holding hands in a ring, dancing in a circle and singing a song they all knew. Amisia stopped and stared at them. One or perhaps two were the young mistresses of the estate, the others could have been friends visiting with their parents.

This must have been the case for she and the other woman were told to return later when the ovens were free. The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder and told her to come. Still holding tightly to her loaf dish, Amisia stared at the girls. One of them looked right at her and motioned to her peers to look too. The girls began to snigger and point at her. She heard them mention her clothes and ragged appearance. Their sniggers soon developed into cruel laughter.

Amisia turned, her cheeks burning with humiliation, her heart aching with despair. It was then, as she looked down at her filthy, plain clothes which reeked of smoke that she realised with sobering clarity that her life would never be any different from what it was at this particular moment. 

Even when she married, she would move to another house, but it would look the same as the one she lived in now. She would never own a dress made from the crisp and colourful fabric that the girls who laughed at her wore. Her hair and clothing would always smell like smoke because she would always live in a house that had a fire burning inside it to keep the cold at bay. She would no longer sleep in the loft, but would sleep on a straw bed like her parents did. It would also be home to fleas and lice because the livestock would need to be brought in at night so they were not ravaged by wolves, stolen or wander off as their pig had.

She would always suffer hunger because for as long as she had lived she had never known there to be enough food. Amisia wondered how her mother managed to fight back her tears and she finally understood the hollow look her mother’s eyes wore each time she heard the children complain that they were still hungry and wanted more food. Finally she understood that her mother was lying when she told them that she was not hungry and gave them her portion too. How many nights did her mother go hungry so that she and Gawen would not have to?

The forlorn girl walked back to her house in silence, ignoring her neighbours’ futile attempts to make light of the upper-class girls’ comments. Despair was the only emotion left to feel. It clawed its way into the heart and there it grew in the absence of hope and in the surrender to an inescapable fate.

Gawen returned to their little cruck house in the late afternoon. It had taken him far longer to cart the loads of marl to the piece of land he was assigned to work and to spread it than it would have his father. His only encouragement was that in time he would gain the stamina to work a field as well as any of the men, but for now at least he could handle the church land whilst his mother worked the strip farms. Today he felt as though he had gained a glimpse of what his father’s life had been. He felt closer to the man than he ever had in his short life. He was in awe of the man who had been able to work both the land that he and his mother were working, as well as their own croft and still many a night have the patience and energy to tell a story to his children before they fell asleep. He swallowed hard as he recalled how his father had climbed the ladder into the loft and made his anecdote full of surprises and laughter that left him and his sister wriggling under their covers, enthralled with delight.

Gawen knew, without having seen his mother’s tears or having spoken to her, that it would have been a great relief