Ballista went to speak, but his mother silenced him.
‘Pull the chairs to the window.’
He did as he was told. Side by side, they sat and looked out over the palisade at the trees stirring in the wind.
‘You have come back at a bad time,’ she said. ‘You will know about this Unferth and his son, Widsith. No one knows where they came from: some say they are from the south, others that they are not human. The father always goes masked. They gave their oath to the king of the Brondings, ate at his hearth, then — two years ago — murdered him, and took his throne. The Wylfings, Geats and Dauciones have cast off the rule of the Himlings and acclaimed Unferth the Amber Lord.’
Ballista carried on looking at the moving branches. ‘Your brother told me all this. The kings of the Rugii and Heathobards said the same.’
His mother made a slight gesture of impatience that he remembered well. ‘You will not know how things are here. Your father has become old beyond his years. Sometimes he comes here; mainly he stays in the hall at Gudme. In most things, he lets Morcar rule. With you a hostage among the Romans, Arkil the same with the Romans in Gaul, and Eadwulf long in exile among his mother’s people in Frisia, there is no one else.’
‘Oslac?’
‘He does nothing except read Latin poetry and brood over his wife.’ She paused. ‘Kadlin’s eldest son, Starkad, is with Arkil in Gaul.’
‘Kadlin is …’
‘She is mourning her brother.’ Again, the little movement indicating impatience. ‘Your father is surrounded by Morcar’s creatures: Swerting Snake-Tongue; Glaum, son of Wulfmaer. Either Morcar or one of them is always there. Unferth and his men have burnt outlying farmsteads on Latris, even here on Hedinsey. They kill our people, raid our allies, and the Himlings do nothing. Morcar is a great warrior, but it is as if he is reluctant to fight Unferth.’
‘Everyone is afraid of someone,’ Ballista said.
His mother laughed. ‘Whatever Morcar is, he is not a coward.’ The laughter went from her. ‘Nor is Oslac. Neither will welcome your return.’
The Island Of Varinsey
Morcar looked up towards the severed horse’s head on the pole. It was too much. It could not be ignored.
The village of Cold Crendon through which he walked had been a quiet place, its inhabitants farmers and fishermen. Now it was a reeking shambles. Two of the cottages must have been well alight before the rain came. Only their beams remained, shimmering with the fire still in their core. The thatch of others smoked wetly. It would have to be raked off. If there was anyone left to do it, and they had the heart to start again.
Bodies lay in the mud. Men, women and children, old and young cut down indiscriminately. Some were naked; their heads had been hacked off and placed by their buttocks. Morcar felt their shame. These were his people. This was too much.
Morcar walked up to the headland. The rain had blown away to the west. Just a few thin clouds raced after it. The north coast of Varinsey was spread out, its low islands and lakes deceptively peaceful in the gusting wind and returned sunshine.
Rock thrust through the soil up here. The hazel pole had been wedged into a cleft. The horse’s head had been turned to face inland. There was writing cut into the pole. Morcar read the runes.
Here I, Widsith Travel-Quick, son of Unferth, set up this Sorn-Pole and turn its scorn on the cyning Isangrim and the Himlings, and I turn its scorn upon the spirits that inhabit this land, its groves, springs and marshes, sending them all astray so that none of them will find a resting place by chance or design until they have driven the cyning Isangrim and the Himlings from this land.
‘The fuckers are taunting us,’ said Swerting. ‘They mean to drive us out, kill us all. No matter what Postumus the Roman says, we have to fight.’
Snake-Tongue was right, Morcar knew. It had been bad enough before. Now Unferth’s son had burnt a whole village, and on Varinsey, deep in the heart of the empire of the Angles. The mutilations, the Scorn-Pole; it was all a direct challenge to the rule of the cyning. The Himlings needed strong leadership now. They needed it as they had not since the coming of the Heruli then the Goths in the days of the cyning Starkad. Morcar knew it fell to him. His father had fought in every battle at Starkad’s side driving out the Goths, but Isangrim was old now, his fighting days were done. Morcar’s brother Oslac would not answer. Oslac was brave, skilled at arms, but always he had thought too much and done too little. Oslac did nothing but dwell on Latin poetry — how would Virgil’s Pius Aeneas have acted? — and worry about his wife. Since Arkil had gone into Gaul, there was no one to lead the Himlings but Morcar himself.
Yes, Snake-Tongue was right: if this went unavenged the Himlings would not have an ally left. The Rugii, Farodini, Hilleviones — even the Aviones, Varini and Reudigni, all the tribes of the Cimbric peninsula — would follow the islanders in deserting to Unferth. With them gone, it could only be a matter of time before the Himlings fought their final defeats on Hedinsey and Varinsey, before their great halls burned like this village of Cold Crendon.
Morcar knew well in his heart that he must take the fight to Unferth. But the problem remained. Postumus was their ally, and the emperor in the west had been unequivocal in his orders: he would not countenance the Angles attacking the new Lord of the Brondings.
Morcar turned his face to the sea, let the wind lift his long hair, play on his face. The thing was out of his hands. His father was still cyning, and Isangrim had decided to consult the gods about war. One of the Brondings taken after the Nerthus ceremony had been uninjured. Isangrim had announced that the Bronding would fight a champion’s duel against an Angle warrior. The gods would show the outcome of the coming war in the result. As the duel was inevitable, Morcar had demanded he fight for the Angles. He was not much afraid. When the Hilleviones had rebelled, he had defeated their champion before both armies and returned them to their allegiance with no further blood spilt. He had won four judicial duels among his own people. He did not know how many men he had killed in battle. It was not arrogance; he knew he was as good with weapons as any in the north.
‘Swerting, take the boat from Hronesness. Go to Postumus’s governor of Gallia Belgica, explain why we have to fight Unferth.’
Snake-Tongue nodded.
‘If you think it necessary, go inland to Postumus himself. Leave now.’
After the tall figure of Snake-Tongue had gone, Morcar turned back to the sea. He closed his eyes, let the wind buffet him. It did not clear his mind. Like a dog with a bone, his thoughts returned to worrying at his problems. From the first, he had known the Angles must ally themselves with the breakaway Roman regime in Gaul. It was not the trade, and not just the clandestine money he received. It was simple geography. The mouths of the Rhine were but a short sea journey. The Angles were separated from the lands still ruled by Gallienus by innumerable miles of forest and plain, by many other peoples, many of them hostile. Postumus held Arkil and some thousand Angles. When Postumus heard the Himlings had gone to war with his other ally, Unferth, he might execute his hostages. The deaths of the others would be a pity, but that of Arkil would be far from a concern to Morcar.
There was a much worse aspect. Postumus, of course, knew fine well how Arkil and the others had come into his power. Apart from Morcar himself and Swerting Snake-Tongue, among the Angles no one else knew; not even Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, or Morcar’s own son, Mord. There was no worry about Snake-Tongue. He had been part of a yet worse thing, and held it close in his heart for twenty-eight years. Swerting was trustworthy. Which was more than could be said of any Roman. How many Romans knew? Obviously, Postumus himself; Lepidus, his governor of Gallia Belgica; Celer, the frumentarius who had arranged the thing — any one of them could have told any number of others. Morcar felt like a man standing on a bastion already undermined by his enemies. At any moment, they might light the wood and pork fat. Would there be any sign — telltale wisps of smoke, a slight tremor; something which would give him time to get clear — or would the whole edifice crash down without warning?