Chapter 1
Kentland - 516 AD
Kentland - 516 AD
Twilight lingered, if meteorological phenomena could be said to be capable of such a thing. Nonetheless, its reluctance to disturb the last vestiges of day light resulted in long, blue-tinged shadows being cast across the scrubby grasses that clung to the cliffside. The sun - clearly approving of twilight’s hesitancy to interfere with proceedings - lazily began its descent in the west; its rays causing the straits of Dover to glimmer and glisten beautifully. A few gulls flapped about in a distinctly lackluster manner, seemingly unsure of whether to stay in flight or find somewhere to roost. Clearly the recitence of day to turn to night had stirred their tiny bird brains - ordinarily a mess of nonsense at the best of times - into a state of disorder.
On the headland, a ring of stones marked out a shaky perimeter around a glade of trees. In the centre stood a massive runestone, towering and imperious, whilst to its side a pyre crackled with a fierce intensity. Several cloaked figures, their heads bowed solemnly, made their way down the path to the edge of the cliffs, watching the sun’s retreat with the quiet reverence of those that were thankful that they stood on this side of the channel and not on the shores of what had once been the Roman province of Gaul. The Jutes were a hardy people, but the tales of what came out of that splintered and divided land was enough to send a shudder down the bravest Jarl’s spine. It was rumored that the phrase “…and this is the part of the animal we throw away” had not yet occurred to Frankish chefs.
As a result the glade was empty, save for two figures - one man and one woman - who stood side by side, watching the pyre and taking in the salted scent of the tide as it mingled with the woodsmoke. This went some way to helping them steadfastly ignore the soft crackle and scent of charring flesh.
The man sighed. It wasn’t a dramatic sigh, nor was it wistful. Instead it was tinged with weariness and resignation.
“So that’s him gone? King Horsa of Kentland. I hope the Allfather knows what’s coming his way.”
The woman chuckled lightly.
“I think we’re all surprised though. I mean, he lived for a long time. A LONG time.”
“I suppose so…”
“You suppose so?”
She punched him on the arm for emphasis.
“You SUPPOSE so? Sigtryg, Horsa was EIGHTY FIVE YEARS OLD when he died! That’s absolutely mental! Unheard of even!”
Sigtryg sighed again. The woman rolled her eyes.
“Ok - now you ARE being dramatic. Pressure of the new job beginning to land?”
Sigtryg looked at her and tried to smile.
“No - it’s more that…”
He paused and gestured at the runestone.
“Do you remember when this was first erected, Estrid?”
Her eyes followed his hands and she furrowed her brow.
“Not really. I’m pretty sure that it was erected when my mother was a girl. To me it’s just always been here.”
Sigtryg nodded.
“That’s my point - Horsa was like that runestone. He’s just ALWAYS been here. Just like I can’t imagine this glade without the stone, I can’t imagine the realm without Horsa.”
A thoughtful look creased the man’s features and a smile formed at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s fitting that we lay him to rest here. He loved this glade. It’s kind of beautiful, with the view and all. Do you think he came here for peace and sanctuary? Somewhere for him to clear his mind?”
Estrid glanced around the glade and took in the bodies hanging from the trees - some no more than skeletons. Occasionally, when there was a gust of wind the chains would rattle, and the bodies would move like ghoulish marionettes. She smiled as kindly as she could at Sigtryg, like one does at small children and the mentally ill.
“No, dear brother. While he loved coming here, I don’t think it was to commune with nature. Horsa was very…hands on when it came to administering the realm, and especially when it came to setting a positive civic example to wrong doers.”
“Eh? He HATED rebels and heretics! He was famous for…”
Editor's note: there is a grand total of about four billion of images similar to this one - you get the idea...
She held a finger to his lips and shushed him.
“Yes, yes. I know that. Just like you grieve by sighing dramatically, I resort to sarcasm to help push all those inconvenient feelings down.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“Just brilliantly. Somedays I can even muster up the energy to drag myself out of bed.”
Estrid suddenly brightened and put an arm around her brother’s shoulder whilst gesturing around the glade.
“Just think! Very soon YOU will be sacrificing the rebellious and the heathen here. And if you’re anything like Horsa, sometimes it’ll even be for the most minor infraction!”
Sigtryg blanched and pulled away.
“Oh no, no, no. That’s not my style. Between you and me I used to always get a bit queasy whenever Horsa held a Great Blot. It was like clockwork too - every nine years an absolute massacre right in this very glade. Sometimes the ground was sticky with blood for days afterwards.”
He stamped on the ground for emphasis and mimed being sick. Estrid made tsking motions with her finger.
“That’s our entire ecclesiastical system you’re mocking you realise. If you keep talking like that you’re going to be guest of honor at the next Blot.”
Dramatically she raised her hand above her head, made an “ack” noise, crossed her eyes and held her head at an angle whilst letting her tongue loll out of the side of her mouth. Sigtryg shook his head.
“That’s not funny you know.”
She chuckled.
“Oh come on - that was my best Romano-British priest impression. Anyway, I’m only joking - you won’t be on the chopping block as it’s YOUR JOB to call the Blots now. Won’t that be fun.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Almost absentmindedly he cast his eyes back in the direction of the pyre that continued to burn fiercely.
“Do you think it ever weighed on him? The burden of rulership?”
Estrid shrugged.
“I’m not sure to be honest. I mean, he was a hardy old sod right to the end. Do you remember that just a few weeks before he finally gave out, grandma number four…”
She paused, and started counting off the fingers of one hand, lingering on the fourth one.
“At least I THINK it was number four - we had a lot of grandmas…. Anyway, do you remember she ended up pregnant?”
Sigtryg looked disgusted.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I have no intention of trying to be some kind of sexual Colossus of Rhodes.”
A sly look crossed Estrid’s face.
“That’s weird - I could have sworn you were a fan of Greek art…”
Sigtryg flushed and she burst out laughing. He scowled at her but his eyes were laughing.
“Anyway - that’s hardly something to brag about.”
“I don’t know, have you heard some of the boys in the longhouses after they’ve been on a raid? I’m pretty sure Rolf has a slate somewhere with a tally on it. Would you believe that Henk Alleson has the highest score?”
Sigtryg looked genuinely shocked.
“What?”
“Swear to the gods.”
“The little skinny guy with the weasel face and the arms like sticks?”
“Uh huh.”
“I don’t believe you - I would have put my money on it being someone like Esa.”
“Oh no - he’s just in it for the pillaging. Henk’s much more about carrying off wenches and making them his own.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Apparently not. Apparently he might have the upper body strength of a kitten but downstairs he’s all…”
She crouched and swung one of her arms between her legs whilst making swooshing sounds. Sigtryg rolled his eyes.
“You’re welcome to him and his…”
He jabbed his finger at her arm.
“…whatever that’s meant to be.”
“A good Saturday night?”
“Estrid, you’re four foot eleven - that would hurt.”
“Do I need to remind you I’ve had six children - if anyone’s built for this assignment it’s me.”
They both stared at each other. The silence lingered for an uncomfortable period of time. Estrid scratched her head and looked at the ground. Eventually Sigtryg coughed nosily.
“Yeah. Anyway. The point I was making is that sort of…nonsense…isn’t what being a king is about.”
Clearly relieved, Estrid nodded her head.
“Oh I agree 100%. And I’m glad you think that way - it’s such an outmoded value. After all, we’re living in the…what is it that the Christians call it?”
“Sixth century.”
“Yeah, the sixth century. So we’re progressive now.”
“I’m glad you think that.”
“I do. And besides, that wasn’t ALL that Hosa was famous for? No he did MUCH more than that. He’s a great role model to emulate.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘role model’, after all…”
She held up a hand and started counting off her fingers.
“I mean, he founded the Kingdom of Kentland for one! When we came to this country we were a scattered collection of plucky pioneers, but we came to love this land and its people and they welcomed us in, so much so that we’re now - geographically speaking - part of the furniture.”
“Estrid, Hosa famously put thousands of the indigenous Britons to the sword and stole their land…”
She shook her head.
“Details. Let’s call it ‘aggressive integration.’ So there - that’s one. Kingdom of Kentland. Check. Proper kingly stuff.”
She folded off a finger.
“He also rebuilt that old Roman road! That was pretty cool. They might be good for nothing shiftless cowards most of the time…”
Sigtryg held up a hand.
“Are you talking about the Romans here?”
“Yup.”
“The biggest Empire the world has ever seen?”
“Yeah - and look at how they ran away when we landed.”
“I think that was us - most people agree that there there were wider political reasons for that.”
“Details. Cowards. But good at roads. So Horsa saw that and rebuild it for the good of the people. And he restored stonehenge to it's former glory! Munificence - another proper kingly quality.”
She folded down another finger and Sigtryg mocked applause.
“Munificence huh? You’ve been reading those Greek scholars’ books again, huh?”
“Look, you like their art work and their appreciation for the masculine form, I like them for their minds.”
She held up her hand before her brother could speak.
“Plus! Plus! He could be a man of peace too! Remember when he got Cador of Dumnonia to join the kingdom without a single drop of blood being spilled?”
Sigtryg sighed.
“The poor man was surrounded on all sides…”
“Details. Qui pace quaerit. That’s Latin by the way. Yet another kingly quality to emulate.”
She folded down another finger and Sigtryg raised an eyebrow.
“Latin huh? I thought the Romans were no good shiftless cowards.”
“They are, but they’re good for roads and for when I want to sound smart.”
Sigtryg started counting off his fingers one by one.
“Ok, so we’ve got munificence, aggressive integration, qui pace quaerit and…”
He gestured at the bodies hanging all around them in the glade.
“…let’s call this ‘Nemo me impune lacessit’.”
The smirk on Sigtryg’s face was achingly smug.
“I paid attention in Latin too.”
He winked.
“So is there anything else kingly I should be focusing on, oh wise sister? ‘Cos it sounds like a lot as it is.”
Estrid lowered her arm to put it around her brother’s shoulder. With her free hand she patted him on the chest, before turning him to face the north. She gestured into the darkness that had finally settled around them, but which was kept at bay by the still burning pyre.
“Out there, dear brother, is a vast and wild land.”
“Yes, I know. Don’t remind me - I’m meant to rule all of it now. It’s quite a daunting prospect.”
She nodded.
“Yes. Yes it is. And yes, you are MEANT to rule all of it.”
He turned to stare at her.
“What do you mean, ‘meant’?”
Ignoring the quizzical inflection in his voice, Estrid nodded and gestured again.
“You like travel don’t you?”
“Estrid…”
“And I think you could REALLY lean into the aggressive integration part of kinging if you put your mind to it…”
“What are you getting at?”
She turned to him and smiled.
“Look, just think of this as a fun adventure and a chance to practice your regal virtues. Almost like a chance to see if you’re up to inheriting Horsa’s legacy.”
He gripped both of her shoulders.
“You’re my sister, and I love you dearly, but if you don’t speak plainly I might very well punt you onto that pyre to join old Horsa and then feed your charred remains to the gulls…”
She smiled dementedly.
“Ok, but I’m going to whisper it to you, and I don’t want you to overreact - promise?”
“Promise.”
Estrid stood on her tip toes and leant in close to Sigtryg’s ear.
***
A lone gull swooped over the land. Far below it was a sea of darkness - thick and stygian - save for a single circle of light. Hopeful that this burst of radiance heralded somewhere warm to rest for the night, it flew lower and as it descended picked out two humans standing in the centre of a circle of trees. It is hard for a bird to interpret human facial expressions, as this is not a skill with much utility in the day to day life of an avian, but the soul wrenching scream that was coming from the throat of the larger human suggested that perhaps this glade wasn’t the best place to find a tree to roost in. With a brief flutter of feathers the gull turned to the south east and headed across the water to the opposite shore. Say what you want about the humans who lived there, but they weren’t known for eating gull.
Yet.
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