by Jae

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Isle of Thanet, Midsummer's Eve, 428 C.E.

"Four months! I have waited four months, and there is no word from the king!" Hengest, chief of the Saxons, flung himself down on the bed. The oaken frame groaned under the additional weight.

"I told you he would take his sweet time," came the muffled voice from under the furs. "Why do you let him insult you like that?"

"It is too warm for furs," the chieftain grumbled, flinging them off onto the floor. Horsa lay naked beside him, his fine body gleaming in the moonlight that streamed through the opening in the roof. His golden hair lay like a cloud around his head. Hengest drew a deep breath. Horsa fascinated him just as much as he had ten years before when he had first seen him, in the far north of Germania, celebrating the rite of the Sacred Twins. Hengest had taken the youthful priest aside after the ceremony and made a fumbling declaration of admiration; discovering to his delight that Horsa found him attractive as well. And after their first night together, to his greater surprise, Horsa would not hear of being left behind. And so Hengest had taken him back to his stead and installed him in his hall as if he were his wife. He had not asked his warriors’ approval, but as the luck of his band grew enormously after Horsa’s arrival, rumors persisted that the blond priest was responsible for the upturn in their fortunes.

"The good luck of Horsa" was credited for the invitation from Vortigern, High King of Britain, to take service in his land against the Picts who annoyed his northern border. Surely it was no coincidence that the offer came just when Hengest’s people were growing too crowded in their own settlement.

And so they had sailed to Britain, three shiploads of Saxons, and settled in this marshy land Vortigern had given them. All had been well at first—Hengest led his men against not only Picts, but Angles and even other Saxons who raided the eastern coast. And Vortigern had paid handsomely for his services. Until lately.

Hengest drew Horsa closer to him, breathing in the exotic perfume he had applied liberally to his body. No matter where their travels had taken them, Horsa always found something to manufacture perfume with, and the scent of them was always pleasing to Hengest’s nostrils. "Umm," he murmured. "Perhaps I will go to his capitol and demand payment myself."

Horsa’s lips found his lover’s ear. Hengest shivered. "Stop that," he said softly.

"No," Horsa teased. "And no, you must not go to London. Stay out of the viper’s den."

"I have no fear of the Briton kinglet," Hengest said. "As you say, he insults me."

"Send him a letter. Flatter him. And do not threaten him directly. We will see what his intentions are."

"I had rather go myself and take what is rightfully mine. I would then be assured of getting paid."

Horsa let his hand run down the length of Hengest’s torso, and then, gently, a little lower. "No," he whispered. "You would lose your infamous temper and run him through with your sword, his guards would fall upon you and even though you would undoubtedly slay them by the dozens before you fell, they would overwhelm you and the mosaic floor of Vortigern’s palace would be red with your blood. And then what would I do?"

"What an imagination! You must write my death-saga, dear heart." Hengest relaxed, letting the blond man continue his ministrations.

"I would not live to write it. What pleasure would life hold for me if ever I lost you? Speak no more of death, Hengest." Horsa stopped what he was doing and looked at Hengest morosely. In the moonlight, Hengest saw tears welling in his eyes.

"Oh, by Woden’s eye! Write the letter, then!" Hengest pushed him roughly to one side and rolled atop him. "Tomorrow."

***

London, Late Summer, 428 C.E.

"What news, Nuntius? I can see by your grim countenance that you bear ill tidings." Vortigern beckoned the messenger forward, took the scroll, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The letter bore a seal, set in red wax, of a riderless stallion. The king broke the seal and handed the missive to the tall, gaunt churchman who stood beside him. He sighed. "Well, Silvius, what does he want now?"

The bishop carefully unrolled the letter, and nervously cleared his throat. "’Hengestus Vitali Regi salutem dicit. Si vales, bene est ...’"

"In our tongue, if you will, good bishop. I am in no mood to follow the vagaries of barbaric Latin."

"Very well, sire. He goes on to say, ‘Hail to the great overlord, scourge of the Picts—‘"

"And do leave out all that nonsense. Get to the point."

"Yes, my lord." His eyes darted back and forth across the page. "’Long may you rule over this island and may your sons’ ... et cetera. Ah! Here we have it. ‘We have awaited with great forbearing the arrival of your officers bringing the payment you promised. Logic dictates that, given the short distance which they were given to traverse, had they left your splendid city before the summer, they should have reached my stead many weeks ago. I tremble to think and to suggest that perhaps some grievous accident befell them. Or—shameful thought! -- perhaps they kept the gold for themselves and are even now enjoying the rewards of our labor. In remembrance of our long-standing friendship, I refrain from suggesting that our rightful wages never left the vast hoard which you are fortunate to call your treasury. I trust you will put this situation right, and, I dare to add, that you will do it with speed. We prefer to continue in service to you, rather than to exercise our arms in pursuits that would be less pleasing to your highness; however, we are poor men and cannot long sustain our needs in this harsh and barren land with only the few coins that are left to us. I need not remind a warrior such as yourself that armies must eat even when not on campaign, and soon winter will descend upon us. I know you to be a man of your word, a great and mighty chief among your people, and therefore I shall rest in the assurance that what is due us will arrive before summer’s end. May the god of your fathers look favorably upon you,’ ... et cetera. There is a good deal more of that sort of thing, sire, and at the end, his mark."

"It may bear the mark and seal of Hengest, good bishop, but those are the words of that creature, Horsa." Vortigern cast his eyes up in disgust.

"An abomination, sire, even as heathens go," Silvius replied.

"What do you suppose he means," Vortigern began, scanning the letter. "Where was it? Ah! This part about exercising their arms in pursuits that would be less pleasing to us. Do you suppose he means to threaten us?"

"I would say that is exactly what he is doing, sire."

"He would not dare!" Vortigern cast the parchment on the floor, and, for emphasis, stomped on it.

"He is a Saxon, my lord. And a heathen. Did I not warn you, when first you broached the idea—"

"Silence!" Vortigern thundered. "We will not be corrected by the church in matters that do not concern the church."

"I seek only to give my counsel, lord king," Silvius amended, and since Vortigern could not see his face, he did not bother to put on a false countenance of contrition.

"Well then, what do you advise us to do?" the king asked.

The bishop sighed. "I see no recourse, sire, but to give them what they ask."

"Give them more gold? And just where do you advise us to get more gold, Silvius? I fear the ‘vast hoard’ I call my treasury is a figment of Horsa’s imagination." Vortigern laughed mirthlessly.

"Then you must raise the taxes."

"I cannot. The landholders will not stand for it. Only last week that—that thorn in my side, Aurelius Ambrosius, came to me claiming to speak for the leading families. Not only will they pay no more, he had the audacity to tell me that they consider the last levy unjust. That is the word he used! And he informed me that he will pay only what he deems a fair amount. A fair amount! Who does this upstart think he is?"

"Ambrosius is a dangerous man, lord. He wields great influence among his peers, and the common folk worship him."

"One problem piled upon another, bishop," Vortigern sighed. "The Picts harass us in the north, marauders nibble away at the east, I hire these Saxon savages to suppress them and they leech my treasury dry. And Ambrosius stirs up trouble among my own people. He covets my crown, Silvius. I fear I am caught between Scylla and Charybdis, as the Greeks would say."

"The wily Odysseus navigated that hazard, sire."

"At great loss, bishop. But enough of fables. Write to Hengest and put him off. Buy me time."

"And what excuse shall I use—" Silvius almost added ‘this time’, but caught himself. "What reasonable explanation shall I give him, sire?" he asked.

"Use the one he himself provided. Tell him my nefarious couriers made off with his gold and sailed away to Byzantium. Tell him I shall not rest until it is recovered and delivered to its rightful destination. Let Horsa chew on that awhile."

***

Isle of Thanet, Kent

"Horsa!" The chieftain’s booming voice carried across the compound. "By Woden, where is he?" Hengest stalked out of his hall, nearly tripping on a large man who sat near the doorway.

"I saw him shortly after dawn, heading for those trees yonder," the man offered, jerking his thumb towards the west.

"Gadd, can you not find a better place to do that?"

The fellow picked up a rectangular cloth on which lay several spear heads, and the stone he had been using to sharpen them. Barely bothering to stand, he moved over a few feet.

"Oaf," Hengest muttered. "I do not understand this fondness Horsa has lately for wandering. Was he ... sky-clad?"

"Nay," Gadd replied nonchalantly. "He was somewhat covered. Shall I go seek him out for you?"

"I’ll go myself. I have need of him."

The spearman laughed roundly. "So early, chieftain?"

Hengest shot him a quizzical look, then swore. "Not for that, idiot! I need his Latin."

"His Latin," Gadd mocked. "If I knew Latin, think you Gerd would love me?"

"Gerd does not love you because you are an idiot," Hengest said, heading for the copse. "And Gadd," he said over his shoulder, "get out of my doorway!"

The thicket was full of signs of Horsa’s passing. Hengest ploughed through the growth, cursing the berry-laden vines that tore at his trousers. Despite the thick wool, thorns pierced his skin and drew small droplets of blood. "Woden smite you, man, where are you? Horsa, give answer!"

But the only sound in the wood was the occasional chirp of a small bird. The sharp thorns nicked at his hands as well. Hengest pulled out his sword and slashed away at the tangled mass. Even against such a lowly opponent as a berry vine, it felt good to hold the flashing sword with its long runic inscription. Many a foe had fallen to the blade that a drunken Hengest had jokingly dubbed ‘Fleah’ when he had won it from an Angle chieftain. The old man claimed it was forged by Wayland the Smith, but Hengest had never believed the tale. His men had laughed uproariously at the name, then Hengest had said, "Which is harder to kill, a charging boar or a jumping flea?" Even the dullest wits understood the meaning of his words, proven time after time in battle as Hengest wielded the sword with a speed no opponent had ever matched.

At last, he cleared a way through the brush and entered a small clearing. Horsa sat on the ground, his legs crossed over each other, facing the sun. His long blond hair, worn unbraided, streamed down his bare back. Hengest drew a breath, determine to sound forceful; the mere sight of Horsa had melted away his anger.

"Horsa! Why did you not answer my call?" Hengest strode around to face him. He was, as Gadd had said, somewhat covered. He wore a short skirt of knotted cords that hung down to his knees when he stood, held in place with a fine belt with a jeweled buckle.

"I knew you would find me," Horsa said without looking up. "Besides, I do not like to shout. It disturbs my thinking."

Hengest crouched down beside him. "What are you doing?"

"As I said, I am thinking," Horsa replied.

"Must you come way out here to think? Why can’t you think in the hall?" Hengest demanded.

"Because you are there," he said. "You distract me." Horsa looked at him and smiled. "See, I am no longer thinking." He pulled Hengest towards him and kissed him.

The chief sighed. "Not now, my love. You must come home and read a letter for me."

"From the High King?"

"It bears his seal. Come along then," he reached out and offered Horsa his hand. "Can you not wear trousers when you leave the hall?" he asked, frowning.

"Trousers chafe my thighs, and they serve no purpose," Horsa said airily.

Hengest let the matter go. He noticed that Horsa’s legs bore no scratches from the brambles that had troubled his own walk through the copse.

As they followed the pathway Hengest had cut with his sword, the knotted cords of Horsa’s garment swung from side to side, in an alternately revealing and concealing fashion. "Why do you bother to wear anything at all, then? The whole compound can see what you have," Hengest scolded.

Horsa tossed his head and grinned. "I must wear something, to have excuse to wear this beautiful belt you gave me."

***

Horsa sprawled in front of the fire, the parchment in his hands. "He says the officials he sent have stolen your treasure and sailed to Byzantium with it. He says he will hunt them down and display their heads on his gate as a warning to the greedy—and he has put a line under the word ‘greedy’." He chuckled softly and tossed the letter into the flames.

"What is funny about that?" Hengest demanded. He sat at the end of a long wooden table, a jar of mead and a cup close at hand.

"He means us, dear heart," Horsa replied. "He thinks you are too greedy."

Hengest scowled. "Does he, now? Well, I will show him how gold-greedy I can be! Perhaps when I relieve him of his treasury and his head, he will learn to deal with us honorably!" He banged his fist on the table, causing the pottery vessel to jump. "Now what are you laughing at?"

"If you lop off the king’s head, he will not be dealing with us at all, ever again."

"You know full well what I meant," the chief said petulantly. "What do you say we should do, hm?"

Horsa looked pensively at the crackling fire. He assumed his favorite cross-legged position before answering. "We have far more men than we did when we struck this bargain. But not enough to attack the Britons directly. Not yet."

"More are coming every year. Soon we will be able to overrun them easily."

"You are right, Hengest. Our numbers are growing rapidly. In fact there are already far too many of us crowded into this small land—this marsh—that Vortigern so generously bestowed on us," Horsa said snidely. "But not yet enough for war."

"I do not need a large force to beat these Britons. Any one of us is worth a dozen of them in battle."

"That I do not doubt, love," Horsa mused. "And you, of course, are worth any hundred. But they know this land better than we. They know the best places for defense, the best places for retreat. It will take far more than we have to overwhelm them by shear force of numbers. If you are to get what you are owed, you must resort to guile. But I am telling you what you already know, my wise and strong chieftain." Horsa rose and put his arms around Hengest’s neck.

"Yes, that is my thinking as well," Hengest said, pulling his lover down onto his lap and nuzzling his head against the luxurious hair. Hopefully, the clever Horsa would soon reveal by what guile he would get his money. "Come, let us make plans."

***

London, Early Spring, 429 C.E.

"Well, Silvius? What of our entreaty to the church? Have these foreign bishops offered us aid against the heathen invaders?" Vortigern paced nervously in his throne room, attended by several armed guards as well as a host of servants.

The aging bishop sighed. "I fear, lord king, that Holy Church is more interested in heretics than heathens."

"What, heretics? Heretics do not afflict us as sorely as do the Picts and the Jutes and the Saxons! Do they not consider what will happen to the churches when the blood-thirsty savages descend upon them? What will differences of belief among us matter then?"

He is right, for once, Silvius thought. "Sire, I know the need is great. And I have spoken with them of the urgency of our pleas. But they do not understand. They are more afraid of the Pelagians than the raiders."

"Then we must defend ourselves as best we can, is that it?"

"That is the truth, sire," the bishop murmured quietly. "At least you no longer have to worry about your Saxon mercenaries, now that Hengest is talking of peace."

"That is an even greater cause for worry," the king said. "Rest assured, Hengest will want something for his peace."

"More gold?"

"No, more land."

"And will you give it to him?"

"I have little choice. I see no harm in giving the Saxons a bit more room. Enough to content them for a few more years, at any rate."

"And then?" the bishop queried.

"And then, it will be someone else’s problem." Vortigern turned and strode from the throne room, servants trailing in his wake.

***

Camulodunum, The Villa of Ambrosius, Summer 429 C.E.

"Ave, Ambrosius!" the stocky newcomer greeted his host. He unfastened the elaborate brooch that held his flowing cloak in place, and tossed the garment to a serving girl.

"Ave, Flavius!" the man responded. He was taller by several inches than any of his guests, his face lean and tanned, his hair cropped short in the Roman fashion. "Come, sit with us and taste the best wine my vineyards have yet produced."

Flavius found an open place among the assembly and gratefully held out a fine silver goblet to a servant bearing the wine.

"Now that we are all present," the tall man said, "I will come quickly to the reason I have asked you here. I refer to the banquet—if one can call a gathering hosted by a pagan wolf a banquet—to which the redoubtable Hengest has invited us all. I know that some of you plan to attend," he said, scanning the faces of the men around him. "Just as I know that some of you have long favored the use of mercenaries in our fight against the marauders, rather than using your own men. Rather than leading your own troops, I might add." Several of the guests shifted uncomfortably, and there were calls for more wine.

"I am utterly opposed to this practice, to which Vortigern has remained committed. It was to be a small force of Saxons, brought over primarily to deal with the Picts. And now they have multiplied like rabbits and are literally bursting forth from the Isle of Thanet. Vortigern wishes us to pay these wolves, and every year he has demanded more and more of our gold towards that end. I say enough!" Ambrosius’ voice rang through the open courtyard.

The stunned company sat silently, a few of them venturing to sip nervously from their goblets. Finally, a portly balding nobleman spoke up. "Ambrosius, we all honor your sentiments. However, you surely realize that we have few men left who are able, or perhaps I should say willing, to face the Picts. We are bereft of all succour from Rome, orphans of our once mighty Empire. Can you not see that times have changed, man? The legions are no more. If not for these paid soldiers, the savages would long ago have overrun our northern frontiers. We simply have no choice."

There were murmurs of approval from the company. A few even applauded. Ambrosius closed his eyes wearily. It was exactly the response he had expected, especially from Marcus Severus.

Ambrosius narrowed his eyes, measuring his words carefully. "If we cannot fight as Romans, then let us at least fight as Britons. You say pay the Saxons to fight the savages. But the Saxons are themselves savages! And they will not be content until they have taken this whole island from us."

"Hengest is a reasonable man," Severus offered. "There is no harm in giving him enough land for his people to settle. Let them raise their families here, learn to farm the land as we did. For did our own ancestors not come to a land that was not theirs? Did they not learn to live amongst the people who were here before us? And now, who is to say we are Romans or Britons?"

Another round of applause followed. Ambrosius, his dark eyes blazing, stood up to address his guests. "Saxons are not Romans, Marcus Severus, as you would know had you ever faced them in battle as I have. Rome brought civilization to this island. We have villas here," he waved his arm to indicate his own dwelling, "as fine as any in Rome itself. We have roadways and bridges, baths and fine churches. That is the legacy of Rome. Not so with Saxons. They are more adept at tearing down than at building up."

Severus rose to face his opponent. "’Submit to the present evil, lest a greater one befall you’. That is from Phaedrus."

"’Once lost, Jupiter himself cannot bring back opportunity.’ That, too, is Phaedrus," Ambrosius shot back. "If we do not meet the Saxons on the field of battle now, when they are still few in number, while they are yet pinned against the coast, I tell you they will burn down your villas around your heads, and if you think they will spare your women and children, you are wrong." He resumed his seat, his face dark with emotion.

"Ambrosius is right." The words came from a dark-haired man at the end of the table who had hitherto listened quietly to the debate between Ambrosius and Severus. "I will not attend this so-called banquet and talk peace with the Saxons. I say we fight."

Ambrosius eyed the young man with appreciation showing on his face. The lad was not wealthy, only one of the smaller Romano-British landholders. But his family had a strong tradition of military service to the empire, and this scion was, Ambrosius thought, a worthy representative. "Is there no one else who would stand with me?" Ambrosius asked.

In the long silence that followed, Ambrosius poured himself a glass of wine and drained it slowly. He set the vessel back down on the table and rose again. "I thank you for attending," he said simply.

One by one, his guests departed, most giving him a polite nod of the head and murmuring a few words of appreciation for the quality of his wine. The young man who had spoken in support of his position had intentionally held back, and as he approached, Ambrosius grasped his hand warmly. "It is heartening to know that there is one Roman left among us," he said.

"I have but little Roman blood in my veins, sir," the youth replied. "I am not ashamed to call myself a Briton."

"Well-spoken," Ambrosius smiled. "And what say you to our chances of victory?"

The young man looked pensive, his eyes downcast. "There will be no victory for Roman Britain. But we can delay their victory. Is there any other course for honorable men?"

"You are a fatalist, then?" the older man queried.

"A realist, sir. As it is said, it is sweet and honourable to die for one’s country. I think we must be content with that."

"Phaedrus again?"

"No, sir. Horace."

"I see you are a scholar as well," Ambrosius said approvingly.

"It would be my choice, sir. But I fear fate has called me to be a soldier."

"Well then, when the time comes, I will be honored to make common cause with you." Ambrosius extended him the formal salute of a Roman legionary.

"The honor is mine, Ambrosius," he replied, returning the gesture.

"Good night, Arturus."

"And to you, sir." Arthur, proud Briton though he was, savored the Latinized version of his name.

***

Isle of Thanet, Fall, 429 C.E.

The stead of the chieftain was abuzz with activity, as every available man and woman, from servant to the lord himself, prepared for the great feast of peace with the Britons. The servants had been up long before sunrise. More tables had been set up, more benches brought in, and every available wooden cup and dish in the settlement commandeered to serve the hundred or so noble Britons whom Hengest had invited. All the heads of the great families, even the High King Vortigern himself, would be in attendance.

Hengest studied the frenzied goings-on, smiling to himself as servants bumped into one another, spilled platters on the floor, and cursed loudly.

"And we call this a banquet of peace," a soft voice said at his side. He turned and caught Horsa by the shoulder, pulling him into an embrace. Horsa responded by pressing his body closer, eagerly returning Hengest’s kiss of greeting.

"Peace indeed, my love. I have fought the Picts and made less noise." Hengest caught a pottery crock that a passing servant let tip from his tray. He handed it back to the lad and cuffed him on the ear. "Take care, most of these are borrowed," he warned.

"If you had built a decent hall, there would not be all this fuss," Horsa said.

Hengest snorted. "This is a fine hall. What is wrong with it?"

"It is a shapeless lump," Horsa replied. "It is too small, and the roof is merely thatched."

"Thatch was good enough for you at home. Why is thatch not good enough in Britain?"

Horsa toyed with his amber necklace. "You were the chief of a small band at home. Now you are King of Kent. We must have wooden shingles."

"Pah! Wooden shingles, is it? King of Kent, indeed! And put on some more clothing! It is one thing to go about half naked before our own folk, but I will not have you flaunting yourself in front of these Britons."

"I will not wear trousers," Horsa said sullenly.

"Then at least wear a tunic," Hengest said. "One that extends sufficiently below your ... "

But Horsa had stormed off, giving the chief a glare of defiance before leaving the hall. "King of Kent," Hengest mused to himself. "Indeed."

***

Hengest sat on a raised platform at the western end of the great hall. Vortigern, King of Britain, sat at his left. Beside the King sat his wife, a pretty young woman with dark braids coiled behind her head in a large mass, and to her left, Bishop Silvius in full ecclesiastical regalia. Horsa sat at Hengests’s right, wearing a tunic dyed a deep indigo—or as Hengest later accused, ‘half a tunic’. He had draped it under his arm, where it hung open almost to the waist. An amethyst pin held it precariously in place on his other shoulder.

Hengest had placed his veteran comrades all along the tables among the visiting Britons. They wore no body armor, but each had his sword belted on. The Britons, following their custom, had left their weapons in a heap outside the hall. Hengest called for order several times before the multitude quieted sufficiently to hear his words.

"Welcome, I bid you all welcome to the Hall of Hengest! We are here to talk peace between my folk and yours, but there will be time for talk later, after you have eaten your fill. And drunk all our good Saxon mead!" The Saxons laughed riotously; the Britons nodded politely.

Hengest lifted his cup. "Woden!" he shouted. The Saxons banged their fists loudly on the tables in response and drained the first cup of mead, but the Britons merely touched their cups to their lips. Christians, he thought disdainfully. He waited a moment for servants to refill the cups and offered the next toast to Vortigern. This time, his noble guests drank; Hengest noted that some of them nearly choked on the powerful mead. If this were a Saxon feast, the round of toasts would have gone round the room, each man trying to better his predecessor in florid boasting. Since the Britons did not seem to understand the custom, Hengest resumed his seat to allow the feasting and drinking to proceed at its own pace.

He turned to Vortigern. "Your folk do not relish our honey mead, High King," he said.

"It is heady stuff, Hengest," the king said, "to men more accustomed to wine. I, however, like it very much." Vortigern drained his cup and held it out to the serving boy at his side.

"Then let us two drink together, as is fitting," Hengest said. He hoped Vortigern caught the nuance. "To your lady," Hengest offered, "the fairest of the women of Britain, loveliest gem in your crown, the glorious queen .. eh, I have forgotten her name."

"Gwynhwyfyr," Vortigern offered.

"Geniver," Hengest attempted. "The beautiful Geniver!" He downed the mead with one draught, only a few droplets escaping to dribble down his chin.

Vortigern shifted nervously in his seat, as Hengest looked at him expectantly. "Well, er ... " he began. His cup was still half-full so he did not bother to hold it out for more mead.

"Come now, Vortigern," Hengest said, grinning wolfishly. "I drank to your lady. Will you not drink to mine?" He said it loudly enough for half the room to hear, and the Saxons laughed uproariously, taking up a chant of "Horsa! Horsa!"

"My faith, chieftain, that is, the teaching of the church ... er, I cannot in good conscience, if you understand ...." Vortigern let his voice trail off.

Hengest scowled. "You offer me insult in my own hall, Vortigern?" A hush had fallen over the assembly and both Briton and Saxon listened anxiously to the exchange.

"No, Hengest, I do not intend insult," Vortigern said quickly. "It is only that, if you understand my meaning—"

"It is a sin, an affront to Almighty God!" Bishop Silvius intoned.

Vortigern glared at him, eyes wide. "What the good bishop meant, Hengest, is that in his faith, that is, our faith, it would be considered a sin. By some."

Silvius postured. "Nay, the king misspeaks. Fornication is always a sin."

The queen gasped audibly, and Vortigern winced. All eyes were on Hengest. "What is the meaning of that word?" he demanded.

"Fornicatus," Horsa supplied. "From the Latin fornix, a whorehouse."

"Is he calling you a whore?" the chieftain demanded.

Horsa smiled. "Well, he’s calling one of us a whore."

Hengest ignored the jibe and shot the bishop a dark look, but the prelate was not to be silenced. "God created man and woman. Therefore, it is right and proper for a man to love a woman," he said through tight lips. "To do otherwise is infamy."

Hengest’s eyes narrowed, and some of his Saxons fingered their swords expectantly. He did not want a quarrel at this point, certainly not one that was likely to end in bloodshed. "By Woden, my Horsa is as good a woman as any man you’re likely to meet!" He roared with laughter, and the Saxons followed suit.

Vortigern smiled ingratiatingly, and raised his cup. "To the most ... exceptional Horsa," he said.

The Saxons lining the tables all stood, followed by several of the British nobles. Reluctantly, Vortigern stood with them.

"Vortigern!" Silvius hissed. "For shame!"

"Be silent, bishop!" the king said under his breath. "I will brook no insult to these good people, our hosts."

As the men resumed their seats, the tension abated and Hengest slapped the king on the back. "Good man, Wyrtgeorn!" he laughed, lapsing into his native pronunciation.

As the evening wore on, many of the Britons slumped over the table, hands draped numbly over their empty cups. Some few still tried to make conversation with the Saxons sitting next to them, but more often, leaned forward and traded ribald humor with each other. The hall was filled with the cacophony of mingled tongues—Saxon, Latin and Briton.

Hengest leaned over and spoke close to Horsa’s ear. "I think, my love, that the net is full of drunken fish."

"Yes," the blond man replied. "But not the one I wanted to catch."

"And who is that?," Hengest said softly.

"Aurelius Ambrosius." Horsa looked grim. "I did not expect him to bite the bait. Ah well, draw in your net when you please, my love."

Hengest shook his head to clear away the dulling effects of the mead. He rose and banged loudly on the table for attention. Gradually, the voices subsided into silence, broken only by a few inebrious groans and belches. "Comrades and guests!" Hengest shouted. "I propose another toast. To Saxon arms!"

The Britons who were still conscious looked somewhat confused as the Saxons rose and drew their weapons. The sound of metal scraping upon metal echoed dully in the ears of King Vortigern. He fumbled for his cup. "To Saxon ...." he began listlessly.

"Strike!" Hengest roared.

***

Hengest drew aside the woolen curtain that hid his sleeping area from the main hall. Horsa had gone to bed hours earlier, leaving the task of disposing of dozens of dead Britons to the servants. A handful of Hengest’s warriors were still drinking, and had taken to singing and riddling.

Hengest shook him gently by the shoulder. "Wake up. I have a gift for you."

"I wasn’t sleeping," Horsa murmured. "Is it over?"

"Aye. Here," he said, holding out an oblong jeweled box on a golden chain. He let it swing back and forth a few times, so that the rubies would catch the rays of the early morning sun. Then he lowered it until it rested on Horsa’s chest.

Horsa smiled and ran his fingers over the intricate gold bead-work on the cover. Fantastic animals and vines twirled down the sides and across the front of the small chest, and the clasp was set with an enormous garnet. "Pretty," he said, flipping the top open. A parcel of luxurious cloth lay inside. He picked it up, and something hard and white clattered out. Horsa peered inside. "Ugh! A bone!"

"Throw it away, dear heart, and put whatever you like inside." Hengest reached over and retrieved the object, holding it up to the light. "Looks like the arm bone of a man. Strange." He tossed it on the floor and slipped into bed, then gently pried the dead bishop’s reliquary from Horsa’s hands and laid it aside.

***

Summer, 430 C.E.

Horsa cast the runes for the third time. The little thicket was quiet in the glow of twilight. The carved pieces of oak fell in the same pattern they had on his previous attempt. Horsa quickly scooped them up and held them close to his chest. "No," he said to himself. "This cannot be."

He thought about casting them again. But the sending of the gods had been clear, even the first time.

He rose slowly, stowing the oaken runes in a small leather pouch that lay on the ground. He unfastened the jeweled belt at his waist and let the skirt of knotted cords slip to the ground. Naked, he began the dance in honor of the Divine Twins. As his movements quickened, he called to mind the closeness he had felt with the pair when he undertook the ritual in his far-off homeland. He finished the dance, spinning madly and collapsing in a heap on the dry grass. He listened for their comforting voices, tried to feel their touch on his bare skin. But there was only the sound of his own labored breathing, and the chill of the night air against his sweating body.

The luck of Horsa had run out, he thought forlornly. The news from Londinium had been bad enough—Vortigern, the sole survivor of the Saxons’ peace banquet, had returned to his capitol in a state of madness. He had not even the comfort of his pretty queen, though Hengest had assured him her death was an accident and due solely to the idiot Gadd’s failure to remember his instructions. He had roamed the halls of his palace, imagining that Bishop Silvanus was with him and mumbling about heretics and fornicators, until finally the noble Ambrosius had ridden in with his escort and claimed the throne.

Now there would be war. Ambrosius had already begun to build fortifications. Hengest had been furious. "You would make me King of Kent, and instead you have made Ambrosius King of Britain!" he had thundered at Horsa. "So I must fight a strong king rather than a weak one. What gain?"

The words still stung. And the battle beside the river would come, the one Horsa had seen in his dreams. The one in which the runes said Hengest would die.

That evening, Horsa tried to broach the subject of battle, but Hengest would not listen. "You are still my bed-mate and you always will be. But from now on, I will take my own counsel," he had said. And so Horsa had gone back outside, heading once more for the little copse he had grown to love, his only reminder of the tall forests of home.

Horsa passed through the clearing where he had done his rune work, and walked into the trees. He pulled his cloak tightly about him. The cold had never bothered him so much before. A movement ahead caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a stag foraging among the trees. Peering closer, he saw that the beast walked upright, on two legs. No Briton had ever dared wander so close to Hengest’s stead. Horsa began to back slowly away.

"Stay," a voice said in clear Saxon. "What do you seek here?"

Horsa gasped. Just as no Briton would be in these woods, surely no Saxon should be either, certainly not one who did not recognize Horsa.

A figure emerged from behind the trunk of a young tree. While he had the body of a man, covered with animal hide, he had the head of a princely stag.

"Art thou a god?" Horsa asked hesitantly, using the formal speech he had learned in the temple of the Twins.

"I am Cherne," the man-stag replied, "Lord of the Trees."

Horsa took a step forward. "Herne," he said, unable to reproduce the strange guttural sound. "I know the Horned One by another name. Art thou Freyr?"

"My folk call me by whatever name they know, and the name you know is but one."

"Thou art a god of the Britons, too?" Horsa asked.

"Peoples come and go. The forest remains," Herne answered enigmatically.

"I will do thee homage if thou wilt aid me," Horsa said. He knelt before the shadowy figure.

"Stand, and speak to me as a man," Herne said.

Horsa rose and faced him. He could see now that the horns were not a part of the being’s head, but were worn atop his head like a cap. "I shall," Horsa said, "for I see you are but a man as well."

"The god is upon me."

Horsa understood his meaning. He too had experienced possession, by his Twin divinities, the brother-gods who were nameless.

"Will you help me, then?"

"There is British blood on your hands, Saxon. Why should I aid you?"

"I have slain no Britons, Herne. I do not even carry a weapon," Horsa replied.

"You mince words. Hengest’s sword follows Horsa’s tongue."

Perhaps once, Horsa thought. But no more. This forest god had seen through his evasion, and knew that the slaughter of the Britons at the banquet had been his idea.

"What are these people to you now, Herne?" he countered. "They follow the White Christ. My folk still honor the Horned One. More of us will come, and soon this land will be ours. Take us as your people and we will serve you."

"I have seen what is to come," Herne said. "Serve the land, and you will serve me," he added.

"You know what I want, then?"

"You seek to change a man’s fate. That is no small doing, to unweave the web of wyrd."

"Aye, I know. But it is ... possible," Horsa said softly.

"For a price," Herne said simply.

"Ask anything of me," Horsa said. "Even my life’s blood."

"Bring me the sword of Hengest. That which was made in the forge of Wayland the Smith at the dawn of time."

Horsa was stunned. So the story the Angle had told was true. The Sword of Wayland. "You cannot ask that," he said desperately. "It is not mine to give."

"Then obtain it," Herne said.

"He will never part with it," Horsa moaned. "Why must you ask for the sword?"

"The swords of Wayland, which are seven in number, are fated. It is the destiny of Hengest’s sword to be wielded by another hand than his."

"If I bring you the sword, you will save Hengest?" Horsa asked.

"I will show you how it may be done," Herne replied.

"So shall it be." Horsa picked up his rune pouch and the skirt, which he carefully draped about his hips and fastened with his belt. He turned and headed back for the great hall.

"Saxon!" Herne called after him. "Why do you wear the dress of a woman?"

Horsa faced him. "Why do you wear the horns of a stag?"

"I am Cherne." the god said.

"I am Horsa," the other replied.

***

Horsa waited until Hengest came to his bed. The chieftain was eager for his body, and Horsa gave him far more than he was accustomed to.

"You are lustful tonight, my mare. You have had your mind too much on the affairs of kings of late. I like it much better when you think only of me."

"Hengest, I must speak to you once more of the affairs of kings, and then never again, I swear. If you would win the battle you plan to fight against the Britons near the river, you must give me Fleah."

"You jest, and I am in no mood for it. Come, and do that again for me." Hengest rolled onto his back, and tugged at his lover’s arm. "Once more."

"Hengest, listen to me. That sword will be your death. Let me have it, and I will show you how to win the battle."

"Have you lost your wits? I would sooner lose one of my own arms than give up Fleah. Speak no more of swords and battles. There is but one sword you understand, and it awaits you."

Horsa could see than Hengest was growing impatient, and he sighed with frustration. "Let me explain," he began. "There is a god in the forest—"

"Cease babbling about gods, Horsa. You cannot talk and do what I want done. Stop talking."

***

Horsa nudged his lover gently. Hengest continued to snore loudly. Quietly, he eased out of bed and crept around to the far side. There on the floor lay Fleah, its scabbard attached to a broad leather belt. Hengest had placed it so that, if he reached out with his hand from his usual sleeping position, he could quickly seize the hilt. Horsa did not stop to dress, nor did he look back. He gathered up sword, belt, and scabbard and ran out into the night.

***

He knew where he would find the god waiting for him, even before he entered the dark copse. Only the faintest traces of moonglow reached through the leaves. He walked calmly forward, holding out his burden towards Herne’s outstretched arms.

The crown of antlers bent forward as the man who wore them examined the runes. "Albion," he breathed.

Horsa let him savor the acquisition for a moment before venturing to speak. "And now, Herne, fulfill your promise. Show me how to save the life of Hengest."

In answer, Herne stretched his arms wide. A mist formed at his feet, floating softly above the ground at first. Then it begin to swirl, and in the vortex, Horsa saw Saxon warriors racing down the hill towards a mass of British soldiery, their backs to the river. It seemed but a moment, and the battle was over. Horsa saw the river thick with the corpses of dead Britons, while the Saxons stood on the bank waving their swords and spears in victory. Then one by one, they took up a mournful chant for their chieftain, whose lifeless body lay on the field behind them. His right arm had been shorn off at the shoulder. Horsa gave a cry and turned his face away from the vision. "He spoke his own doom," he moaned.

"Look once more," the voice of the god intoned.

Horsa forced himself to peer again into the roiling white mist. The field was the same, but this time it was the Saxons who stood along the river bank, awaiting the charge of the Britons. And the battle was not over as quickly, nor as easily won. When the swords ceased to rise and fall, nearly a quarter of the Saxon host had fallen, along with most of the Britons. But Hengest stood with his victorious warriors, and his body bore no wounds.

"I understand," Horsa said. "Now, if only I can convince Hengest ..."

Herne beckoned him forward. "Accept my blessing, Saxon."

Horsa knelt and did fealty to the Lord of the Trees. I would profit more if he were to give me a love potion instead, he thought.

***

It was dawn when Horsa returned to the stead. He found the men at arms milling about, honing their weapons, and boasting to each other of their prowess. Hengest was not in sight.

He found him at last still inside the hall. His great iron helmet with its boar crest lay on the table beside him. He was wearing his armor, the tunic covered with strong iron rings; and his shield, set with gilt-bronze mounts, stood propped against the bench.

Horsa walked over to within a few feet of where the chieftain stood. "Hengest," he said. Hengest continued to stare in the direction of the doorway, as if Horsa were not there at all. "Hengest," he said again. "I know you are angry with me. But I had to give the god of the forest what he demanded. It was the price of your victory. I can tell you how to win the battle."

Hengest grasped the hilt of his sword and drew it forth. It was finely made, the blade razor sharp. Hengest narrowed his eyes and looked up and down its length. "Do you see this sword, nameless one? It was forged by Godric several months ago, at the request of Beorn. But before he could collect it, Beorn died of a seizure in the middle of the night. And so Godric put the sword aside in a corner of the smithy. And now it comes to the chieftain, who had no sword when he awoke this morning. I carry the sword of a dead man, nameless one. Because my Fleah was stolen from me while I slept. Stolen by the only man I have ever trusted." Hengest picked up the helmet and lowered it over his head. The shield he slung across his back. And with a grating thud, he rammed the sword back into its sheath.

"Because I love you," Horsa said quietly.

"Get out of my sight," the chieftain said coldly.

"Hengest, please listen to me. You must hear what I have to say. I beg you!"

Hengest drew back his hand and slapped Horsa across the face. The impact sent the smaller man reeling to the floor. "I will never again listen to your snake’s tongue. I curse you, nameless one, spawn of Loge!" Hengest strode from his hall, and assembled his men with a shout. "We march!" he called. "To the river!"

***

Hengest halted his men atop the gently rolling hill overlooking the river. "Here we will wait for them," he said.

The chief stood on the crest of the hill, surveying the land below. It was good land, he thought. He pictured Saxon homesteads and herds of fat swine dotting the landscape. Fields, too; crops ripening in the sun. There was plenty of room here in Kent for his people. After he cleared out the Britons.

He heard someone come up behind him, and turning around, he blinked. Horsa stood there, his long blond hair bound in a thick braid which hung over one shoulder. He had donned a plain woolen tunic and trousers, and in his hand he carried a spear.

"What are you doing here?" Hengest said at last.

"I have come to die with you," Horsa answered.

"Hmph. I have no intentions of dying today, although you most assuredly will, since you do not know how to cast that spear you’re carrying. You look absurd."

"You plan to wait for the Britons to assemble in the valley below, along the banks of the river. Then, you will lead our men down the hill."

"How did you know that?" the chief demanded.

"I have seen it," Horsa answered quietly. "And I saw you lying dead in that valley. I choose to lie beside you again, if only on your funeral pyre."

"Go home, Horsa," Hengest said with a sigh.

"No. It is my right as a Saxon to fight at the side of my chief. Perhaps it will be said of me that I died like a man."

This was the sort of thing Horsa usually said in jest, but Hengest saw that he was not smiling. "It is a sound plan. I have used it before and won victory. There is no other sound plan but that one. I know what I’m doing."

"Lead the men down the hill now, and take the position along the river yourself. And there await the coming of the Britons."

"What? Put my back to the river? That is madness, Horsa. Only a fool would do that."

"Then we will die."

"Do not look at me like that, Horsa. I swore I would never let those blue eyes of yours lead me against my better judgment again."

"I have never lied to you, beloved. I have always counseled you as Woden led me to—I have spoken only what the runes told me to speak. You have the favor of the gods, Hengest; and therefore, you are led aright whether it seems so to you or not."

Hengest considered his words. "Perhaps you are right about that. Vortigern would have soon fallen, for he was weak. We only hastened his end. But I will not put my back to that river. Do you hear me, Horsa? I will not do that."

Horsa laid his cheek against the chief’s shoulder. "Then you will never be King Of Kent, and I will never have a fine hall with wooden shingles."

"Woden take me for the greatest fool that ever lived," Hengest sighed. "If you are wrong about this, Horsa, there will be no place in Midgard where you will be safe from my wrath. If I lose this battle, I will wring your pretty neck."

Hengest bolted down the hillside, shouting to his men to march to the river. "Go home!" he called over his shoulder.

***

Hengest flung his helmet aside and mopped the sweat from his brow. His mail tunic lay open at the shoulder, but the Briton’s blade had not even cut through the shirt he wore beneath it. Other than a small cut on his sword hand, Hengest had come through the battle unscathed. Many of his best warriors had not fared so well. He had detailed several of those who had not been wounded to gather the bodies of the dead and tend the dying as best they could.

Suddenly, Aelfgar appeared at his elbow. "Chieftain," he said. "Horsa has been wounded. He is asking for you."

Hengest felt his stomach tighten. "Horsa here? I told him to go home!" It cannot be, he thought.

"Come, I will take you to him," Aelfgar said urgently.

He found him lying a short distance from the field of battle, apparently borne there by some of his men. Hengest knelt down beside him. He saw that the front of the woolen tunic was soaked with bright red blood. "Leave us!" he commanded the Saxons who had gathered around.

"Horsa," he said in a low voice. He reached out and brushed the blond hair from his lover’s eyes. It was damp with perspiration. Slowly, the man’s eyes opened.

"I knew you would come to me, my love." His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

"Don’t try to talk. I will find Osric to tend your wound."

"No, time grows short," Horsa said. "I must know ... if you still hold any anger in your heart."

"No, dear one, no anger," Hengest said.

"Not even for the sword? I know how you loved it."

"What does a sword matter if I lose you? I do not care about the sword. I do not even care about being King of Kent. I care about nothing in all the world but you, my mare."

Horsa coughed and clutched at his chest. "Kiss me," his lips said, though no sound came out.

Hengest could no longer hold back his tears. He slipped his arm around the man’s neck and brought his face up to meet his own. "I love you," he said, gently kissing the parted lips. Horsa smiled slightly, and closed his eyes. A low moan escaped the chief’s throat.

A hand tugging roughly at his shoulder pulled him out of the trance of deep grief. "Hengest! Chieftain!" Osric’s voice was calling to him. "How can I tend him if you do not let go of him?"

"No! No, you have come too late. He is dead." Hengest still held Horsa tightly, not caring that the blood stained his own tunic as well.

"He is not dead, chieftain. I can see that he is still breathing."

Hengest blinked. "Not dead?"

***

Hengest lay on a pile of furs before the crackling fire in his new great hall, propped on one elbow. His other arm encircled Horsa’s waist. "Well, does it suit you?" he asked.

"It suits me," Horsa smiled. "It is a hall befitting a king. Especially the wooden shingles."

"You are a devil, Horsa," Hengest said. "Letting me think you were dying when you knew it was no more than a flesh wound. And you tricked me into promising you this grand home. Why did the gods saddle me with such a lover as you?"

"Because they favor you," Horsa said. He took Hengest’s hand and brushed it across his lips. "Take me, here beside the fire."

Suddenly, the great oaken door swung open. Startled, Hengest bolted up and felt for his weapon. Outlined in the doorway stood a man wearing a crown of antlers. The moonlight behind him cast his face into darkness.

"Hengest! He has come! The Lord of the Trees .... " Horsa rose and approached the figure. "Herne," he said.

"Have you forgotten your words to me so soon? How am I to be a god to your folk if there is no witga?" He used the Saxon word that both men understood to mean one who serves the god.

Herne withdrew a bright object from the folds of his cloak. He held it out to Horsa. "Take it."

Horsa examined the thing. It appeared to be an arrow, made of pure silver, but its shaft was thick and inscribed with symbols. He read the runes written on the arrow silently, letting his fingers trace each one in turn. He gazed in awe at the Stag Lord, unable to speak. Hengest had slowly come to stand beside him, looking curiously at the apparition in his doorway.

"This is the god to whom you gave my sword?" Hengest murmured.

"It is the Lord Freyr, but in this land he is called Herne," Horsa whispered back.

"The sword will sleep for seven centuries, Chieftain, until the Saxons are again in need of its power. Then it will pass to one worthy to be called Herne’s Son." Herne stretched forth his arms to give his blessing. "Guard well what I have placed in your hands, witga," he said to Horsa. "And come to the forest on the morrow, for I have much to teach you."

"Hail Herne, Lord of the Trees," said Horsa.

"Hail Horsa, Guardian of the Arrow," the god responded. "And Hail Hengest, King of Kent."

It did not seem that he walked away, but rather vanished into the night air. Hengest shook his head in disbelief. "That was indeed the Lord Freyr come into my hall? I was not dreaming?" he asked.

Horsa held out the silver arrow as evidence.

"What will you do with it?" Hengest asked.

"Come, I will show you," Horsa said, pulling him towards their sleeping quarters. From underneath the low bed, he withdrew the glittering golden reliquary. He took out the cloth and carefully wrapped the arrow in it. He placed it inside, and gently lowered the lid. "It is good to have something worthy to put in my pretty box."

***

Author's Notes:

   According to the 12th c historian Saxo Grammaticus, Freyr was served by gender-variant priests who dressed in female attire and displayed an effeminate manner. They engaged in cultic homoeroticism to bring about good harvests.
   As Randy P. Conner notes in Blossom of Bone: Reclaiming the Connections Between Homoeroticism and the Sacred, "It is fairly certain that the ergi priests of both Freyr and Freya wore a mixture of feminine and priestly articles of clothing."
   In this story, Horsa is given a background as an ergi priest in Sweden (Uppsala was the locale of an important temple of Freyr), and as a devotee of the Alcis, twin warrior gods who were revered by gender-variant priests of the Germanic Naharvali.
   While there is no historical evidence for Horsa being a transsexual or gender-variant priest, much less Hengest's lover -- the name does mean "Mare", an unlikely appelation for a heteroxexual Germanic warrior.
   The Arthur of this story is a far cry from the fellow with the Round Table, but one which I feel is much closer to reality than the chivalrous king of legend. You will meet him again in the sequel. -- Jae.

This story first appeared in Saxon Chronicles #2, Scirwude

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