The Half-Slave Page 13

  Hanno looked up and called him over. Ascha hesitated. As a half-slave, he could not eat with the freemen on the high table, but then Hroc waved and patted the bench beside him.

  Grinning, Ascha took his place between his brothers.

  Later, when everybody was woozy with food and beer, they called for Hanno.

  ‘Tell us a story,’ they roared, stamping their feet and whistling.

  Ascha clapped and cheered along with everybody else, remembering how his brother could catch a poem by the tail and spin it, weaving a story that would charm the very birds from the trees.

  Hanno got to his feet. He raised his hands and asked for quiet. He wore a red woollen tunic, his hair washed and gathered in a horse’s tail that whispered down his back. He waited until there was silence.

  ‘Today is a special day,’ Hanno said in sombre tones. ‘We are gathered here to welcome home my brother, who was cruelly taken from us by the Franks.’ He turned to Ascha and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘But now Ascha has returned to us. My heart fills with joy to see tha here once again, back with thi own people, back home where tha belongs.’

  They let rip, feet stamping and knuckles rapping.

  Ascha beamed.

  ‘But life is not all joy,’ Hanno said. ‘Not long ago my father died. Aelfric was our hetman for many years. He took us on raids across the sea and led us against our enemies. He forced the Franks to pay us tribute, and we came home rich in slaves and war-loot.’

  Ascha took a sip of beer and glanced around. The Theodi were nodding, caught by the moment.

  ‘Under Aelfric’s wise leadership we were blessed by Tiw. We traded with the outlanders who crossed our lands and we grew wealthy. We forgot the taste of hunger. They were good years.’

  The fire crackled and spat and a log shifted. Ascha swept the room. The Theodi were watching Hanno, mouths open. He was aware of Hroc sitting beside him, drinking in every word.

  Hanno lifted his hands. ‘We are Aelfricingas, the people of Aelfric, and we mourn his death,’ he said.

  ‘We mourn his death,’ the Theodi intoned.

  ‘Since Aelfric died, times have been hard,’ Hanno continued. ‘We suffered when the storm-surge flooded our fields. We suffered when the harvest failed. We suffer still from the threat of war.’

  ‘We have suffered,’ they murmured.

  The wind gusted, rattling the shutters. A thick plume of smoke tumbled into the hall and slowly uncoiled, stinging Ascha’s eyes. He held his breath, every eye in the hall on Hanno.

  Hanno lowered his arms and then lifted one hand. ‘Why, brothers and sisters, do we endure these hardships?’ He paused and looked about him. ‘I will tell you why. Since Aelfric’s death, the Theodi have turned away from Tiw. His face no longer shines upon us.’

  Hanno lifted both arms high in the air and put back his head, his voice rising.

  ‘People of the Theodi, I say to you now, we must turn back to the path of Tiw before it is too late. We must take the God of the Theodi once more into our hearts. Trust in Tiw and with his divine help, I promise you, we shall be a holy people once more.’

  Silence but for the crackling of the fire and the wind whistling through the rafters. Hanno stood, eyes glittering, and then abruptly sat down.

  The Theodi looked to one another uncertainly.

  A crash as a bench tipped over.

  Hroc lurched to his feet, beer in hand. He took a step, nearly stumbled, and then leaned on Ascha’s shoulder for support. He swore beneath his breath and then flung his arms wide.

  ‘My friends! I am a simple man and I do not have Hanno’s way with words, but I will say this. While there is beer in the bucket and meat on the table, while there is food enough to give our little ones plump cheeks and warm bodies, while our women have kind hearts and fat arses, we will remain true to who we are. And bugger what Tiw thinks! We are Theodi, the people of the pool! We shall survive. And one day, I promise you, we shall prosper once again.’

  The crowd went wild, laughing and thumping their feet on the floor. Ascha glanced at Hanno. His brother was staring at Hroc, his handsome face twisted into a look of dark fury. His father had been right, he thought. In times of crisis, what the clan needed was the leadership of a pig-headed brute like Hroc, not a godfearing poet like Hanno.

  Hroc raised the beer horn. Turning to Ascha, he dragged him to his feet, breathing warm beery fumes into his face.

  ‘Welcome home, little brother,’ he bellowed. ‘Welcome home!’

  After the feasting, the trestles were taken down and the benches pushed back. The clan danced to the thrum of the bowstring and the rap of the skin-drum, floorboards squawking like wet hens.

  Besso got to his feet. He hitched his belt up over his belly, cupped one hand behind his ear and sang, slapping his thigh to keep time. He sang the old songs, of long raids across the sea, of friendship and battle and the joy of returning home, laden with loot, to a woman’s warm welcome. His voice was rich and deep, like old oak steeped in honey. Once, Ascha would have listened to Besso all night, but now he felt on edge. He had to keep in mind what he was doing here. He had a job to do.

  He felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Hroc. His brother pulled him by the arm, drawing him away from the noise and the press of bodies.

  ‘How does tha find us?’ Hroc yelled.

  ‘I feel like a ghost,’ Ascha said. ‘Nothing is what it was.’

  ‘Maybe tha came back to the wrong place.’

  ‘Maybe I did.’

  They smiled at each other without humour.

  ‘The young Frank,’ Hroc said, ‘that little piss-pot we met at Sam…’

  ‘Samarobriva.’

  ‘They tell me he’s now Overlord of all the Franks?’

  Ascha nodded. ‘He is.’

  Hroc shook his head. ‘Tha should have let me kill him when I had the chance.’

  Ascha pursed his lips. If Hroc had killed Clovis, life would have been different for all of them. ‘Tha’s right, I should have,’ was all he said.

  ‘Does tha think the little bugger will take the Franks to war against the Cheruskkii?’

  ‘Why would he?’ Ascha said, his words tinged with venom.

  For a moment there was no expression on Hroc’s face, and then he gave Ascha a grim smile. ‘Tha’s right,’ he said. ‘Why would he?’ He grinned and slapped Ascha hard on the shoulder. ‘Now tha’s home, we must go hunting. Boar! That’s the thing. There’s a big brute along the north shore. A monster! Hanno says we ought to go get him. You should come!’

  He gave Ascha a huge wink and was gone.

  Ascha went out to the yard. Outside it was cold and still. The air smelled clean, rain washed, the music muffled, as if wrapped in a blanket. Moonlight glinted in the elms. He patted his belly and belched contentedly. His homecoming was going better than he had hoped and the clan, even Hroc, had welcomed him with open arms. He smiled and ran his hand over the back of his head. Perhaps he would grow his hair long again. Braid and coil it in a topknot, like a true Theod. He smiled and shook his head at his own foolishness. He went to the paddock and clicked his tongue. Caba came immediately. She blew through her nostrils, pushed her nose into his palm and allowed herself to be stroked.

  He heard a step and turned.

  A young woman stood bundled against the chill. She pulled back her shawl and let it fall around her shoulders. In the moonlight, he saw a broad brow, eyes set wide apart in an open face, a snub nose and curly hair.

  ‘Saefaru?’ he said.

  ‘How is tha, Ascha?’ she said with a shy smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognized tha,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  He let his eyes wander over her. She was rounder in the face than he remembered, and plumper. No longer the skinny girl whose form he had whittled up in the tree. She wore a dark dress edged in some brighter colour, a metal brooch at each shoulder and at her wrists, copper sleeve-clasps. His mind went back to when she would slip from her cabin when her father
was asleep, run with him through the meadows and lie beside him in the grass, their legs entwined like ivy on a barn roof.

  ‘Tha’s become a fine-looking young man, Ascha.’

  There was a wistful note in her voice.

  He opened his mouth to speak but she held up her hand.

  ‘They told me tha wouldn’t be coming back,’ she said. ‘They said tha was going to be a hostage!’ She spat out the word as if it were something unclean. ‘I thought I’d niver see tha again.’

  ‘Is tha well?’ he said, his voice husky.

  She nodded but he could tell she was crying. ‘I’m married,’ she said. ‘And I have a son!’

  He should have guessed. Her hair was tied in a single braid and from her belt hung the iron key of a married woman.

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ she went on quickly. ‘He’ll make a fine warrior.’

  A deep sense of loss, bitter as ashes, passed through him. Saefaru married with a son? All those nights he had lain awake, thinking of her. She had been his hope and his comfort. He felt as if something precious that had belonged to him had been suddenly ripped away.

  The door opened and a man appeared, edged by the yellow light. The man shouted into the darkness, his voice hard and insistent.

  ‘It’s my husband, I must go.’

  She made no move to leave, standing there with her chin lifted as if waiting for something to happen.

  Ascha peered at the man in the doorway.

  ‘It’s Wulfhere,’ she said, seeing the direction of his gaze. ‘I married Wulfhere.’

  ‘Wulfhere?’ he said, disbelieving.

  ‘He’s a good man, Ascha. He’s not what he was.’

  ‘Wulfhere!’ he repeated with disgust. How on Tiw’s earth could she have married Wulfhere?

  The man in the doorway shouted again, punching her name into the darkness and then went inside. Saefaru went to move away. As she did so, she turned suddenly. Ascha stepped in close. He put one hand behind her neck and drew her to him. He paused and then he kissed her, hard on the mouth. He felt the dry pressure of her lips and the touch of her tongue as she leant into him, and then with a gasp she broke away.

  At the door, she gave a little wave to where he stood in the darkness.

  Sweet mother of Tiw! He thought, and then she went inside.

  One winter, many years before, Ascha is hare-hunting with friends near a lake not far from the village. The lake is frozen, the air raw and damp, and snow hangs heavy in the trees. Lost in the thrill of the hunt, Ascha has no idea anybody is behind him until a stone strikes him on the side of the head. He picks it up and turns, blood running down his cheek, and his heart sinks. Wulfhere and two cronies are standing loose-limbed and grinning, the ill-will hanging out of them.

  Wulfhere is the youngest son of a poor freeman farmer and has been Ascha’s enemy for as long as he can remember. He is older and stronger than Ascha, with thick arms and a mess of dirty blond hair falling over small and pig-like eyes. Wulfhere loathes Ascha and all slave-born and once beat an old slave woman until the blood flowed.

  Sensing trouble, Ascha’s friends slip away. Wulfhere and his friends jostle Ascha, slap his face, spit on him and accuse of him using a weapon.

  ‘Weapons are permitted for hunting,’ he says, his tone defiant.

  Wulfhere leans his face into his. ‘Only free born have the right to bear arms. And tha’s not free born, is tha, mischling?’

  Mischling, the half-breed.

  Ascha clenches the stone in his hand. Face burning with shame, he swallows and says, ‘I’m no mischling.’

  ‘Na,’ Wulfhere snarls. ‘Tha’s a slave-whelp and thi mother’s a slave whoor who’s been with half the men in the village.’

  Ascha flings the stone into Wulfhere’s face. A sharp yell of pain. Wulfhere coughs, his hand flies up and comes away all bloody.

  ‘He’s broken my fucken nose,’ he spits.

  For a moment, they stare at Ascha in blank astonishment and then they lay into him, fists swinging. Ascha punches one boy in the teeth. He turns, kicks another between the legs and then he runs. They chase him through the woods and along the lake-side. They are bigger and stronger, and he knows he cannot escape. Desperate, he steps onto the ice. It holds. Carefully, he takes another step, moving further out onto the frozen lake.

  Wulfhere and his friends stop. Ascha sees that they are too heavy to follow him. He keeps on going and then turns. He waves his arms and jeers, taunting them. They stare at him with loathing and then bend and pick up stones. A rock comes skittering and sliding across the ice towards him. Another bounces, throwing up a hail of shards. Ascha feels a sharp burst of pain as a rock raps him on the shin. He goes on, trying to get beyond their reach. Grey water slowly moving beneath him.

  The ice gives way, and Ascha goes under. The shock punches the breath from his lungs. Teeth trembling in their sockets, he kicks and takes a deep gulp of air. He hears a distant cheer and then the water closes over him, thick and cold and murky. More stones come slithering over the ice towards him. Overwhelming pain pounds through his head. He feels the cold sapping his strength. Somewhere he can hear shouts. He is sinking. No strength to kick, all feeling going in his legs.

  Someone grabs his hair and pulls him up, lifting him out of the dirty water. He feels strong arms haul him ashore and then darkness closes over him.

  When he comes round he is lying with one cheek pressed into the frozen mud, and Hanno is kneeling beside him thumping foul water from his lungs. A ring of villagers are pointing at him and whispering. But what he remembers is Wulfhere, his nose pulped and bleeding, and his eyes murderous.

  The day after the feast, Ascha was returning from his morning ride. He rode the mare through the village and down to the river. As they neared the water’s edge, ducks quacked, geese honked and the mare quickened her pace. It had rained heavily in recent weeks, and the river was swollen. Caba hesitated. Ascha patted her neck, whispered and walked her in until the water was over her fetlocks. He slid off her back and with his cupped hands scooped up water and washed the mud off her legs and belly. The mare turned her head and watched him. He was surprised at how warm the water was. He took a handful of twisted straw, scraped the water off her flanks and then mounted and rode back to the farm.

  Rounding an alley corner, he saw a man at the jetty, cloaked and booted, stepping into a boat. The man turned suddenly and seemed to stare right at him. He hastily pulled the mare back into the shadows and watched as the boat pulled away and sailed upriver. Where, he wondered, was that bastard Wulfhere going to at this time of day?

  ‘I saw Wulfhere at the jetty,’ Ascha said later. ‘He was dressed for travelling.’

  ‘Sometimes he goes across the river to see his cousin,’ his mother said.

  ‘His cousin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long will he be away?’

  His mother stopped what she was doing and studied him. He ate and pretended not to notice, thinking no more questions.

  ‘Two, maybe three days,’ she said.

  He nodded and carried on eating.

  Since his return, his mother seemed reluctant to let him out of her sight. Sometimes he caught her staring at him as if she could not believe he was really there. She would reach across to brush the hair away from his face or lay a hand against his cheek. One day they went to the beach. They sat on an old sea-washed tree and watched the sea come in, wave after wave, sloshing over their feet. She told him how the year after he left there had been a storm surge. The river broke its banks and the meadows flooded. The sea ditches could not cope with the torrent, roots were stripped bare and houses washed away. The livestock had drowned before the Theodi could get to them and the crops were ruined. The starving time his mother called it. The poor had eaten cats and dogs, rats, birds, even tree bark. Their bellies had swollen and they had grown too weak to work. Some left the village. They went overseas, joined warbands and looked for new land.

  A few, she said, had sold their
children to buy food.

  He stared at her, thunderstruck. ‘How could they do that?’

  ‘People have to eat,’ she said as if that was the answer to everything.

  She told him that without the Franks’ silver, more would have died.

  Ascha understood. Life among the Franks had not been easy, but he had not gone hungry. He picked up a pebble and hurled it into the sea, picked up another and then dropped it. They sat without speaking and then his mother glanced at him and said, ‘Ascha, why did you come back?’

  ‘I came to see you.’ He saw the doubt on her face. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘You’ve changed. You’re different.’

  He laughed bitterly, his chest tight. ‘How am I different? I was the son of a slave before and I’m the son of a slave now.’

  She flinched as if he had slapped her across the face and then said, ‘You are not what you were. There’s something about you. Something you’re not telling me.’

  He said, ‘There’s nothing, Ma, nothing at all.’

  Neither of them spoke. And then she said, ‘Was it hard for you among those people?’

  ‘Hard enough.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He saw her tears falling and hardened his heart. ‘You don’t want to know, Ma.’

  She stopped crying. She breathed in and said firmly, ‘I think you should go.’

  Sweet Tiw! What was all this about? ‘Go where, Ma?’ he said. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Go back to Frankland. Go to Pritannia. There’s nothing for you here. Nothing has changed. You think it has, but it hasn’t.’

  He sensed the fear coming off her in waves, and then it dawned on him. ‘You think the Cheruskkii will move against us? Is that it?’ He reached over and took her hand. ‘Radhalla won’t go to war against us, Ma. He has bigger fish to fry.’

  For a moment he almost believed himself.

  His mother pulled a wry face. ‘Did you know Radhalla has every smith on the northshore making weapons?’

  He looked at her, aghast. ‘Does Hroc know?’