saved.'
Grysstha forced himself to his feet, staggered, then gazed around him. Bodies littered the field and Saxon women were moving amongst the corpses seeking lost loved ones.
'Why did you save me?' snarled Grysstha, rounding on the King.
The man merely smiled and turned on his heel. Flanked by his Guards, he strode from the field to a crimson tent by a rippling stream.
'Why?' bellowed Grysstha, falling to his knees.
'I do not think he knows himself,' said a voice and Grysstha looked up.
Leaning on an ornate crutch carved from dark shining wood was a middle aged Briton, with wispy grey-blond beard over a pointed chin. Grysstha saw that his left leg was twisted and deformed. The man offered the Saxon his hand but Grysstha ignored it and pushed himself to his feet.
'He sometimes relies on intuition,' said the man, gently, his pale eyes showing no sign of offence.
'You are of the Tribes?' said Grysstha.
'Brigante.'
"Then why follow the Roman?'
'Because the land is his, and he is the land. My name is Prasamaccus.'
'So I live because of the King's whim?'
'Yes. I was beside him when you charged the shield-wall; it was a reckless action.'
'I am a reckless man. What does he mean to do with us now? Sell us?'
'I think he means to leave you in peace.'
'Why would he do anything so foolish?'
Prasamaccus limped to a jutting boulder and sat. 'A horse kicked me,' he said, 'and my leg was not strong before that. How is your hand?'
'It bums like fire,' said Grysstha, sitting beside the tribesman, his eyes on the women still searching the field of battle as the crows circled, screeching in their hunger.
'He says that you also are of the land,' said Prasamaccus. 'He has reigned for ten years. He sees Saxons and Jutes and Angles and Goths being born in this Island of Mist. They are no longer invaders.'
'Does he think we came here to serve a Roman King?'
'He knows why you came - to plunder and kill and grow rich. But you stayed to farm. How do you feel about the land?'
'I was not born here, Prasamaccus.'
The Brigante smiled and held out his left hand. Grysstha looked down at it, and then took it in the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist.
'I think that is a good first use of your left hand.'
'It will also learn to use a sword. My name is Grysstha.'
'I have seen you before. You were at the great battle near Eboracum, the day the King came home.'
Grysstha nodded. 'You have a good eye and a better memory. It was the Day of the Two Suns. I have never seen the like since, nor would I wish to. We fought alongside the Brigante that day, and the coward-king Eldared. Were you with him?'
'No. I stood under the two suns with Uther and the Ninth Legion.'
'The day of the Blood King. Nothing has been right since then. Why can he not be beaten? How does he always know where to strike?'
'He is the land, and the land knows.'
Grysstha said nothing. He had not expected the man to betray the King's secret.
Of seven thousand Saxon warriors who had begun the battle, a mere eleven hundred remained. These Uther required to kneel and swear Blood Oath never to rise against him again. In return the land would be theirs, as before, but now by right and not by conquest. He also left them their own king, Wulfhere - son of Orsa, son of Hengist. It was a brave move. Grysstha knelt with the others in the dawn light before the King's tent, watching as Uther stood with the boy, Wulfhere.
The Saxons smiled, even in defeat, for they knew they knelt not before the conqueror but before their own sovereign lord.
The Blood King knew it too.
'You have my word that our friendship is as strong as this blade,' he said, hoisting the Sword of Cuno-belin high into the air, where the dawn sun glistened like fire on the steel. 'But friendship has a price. This sword will accept no other swords in the hands of the Saxon.' An angry murmur rippled amongst the kneeling men. 'Be true to your word and this may change,' said the King, 'but if you are not true I shall
Grysstha forced himself to his feet, staggered, then gazed around him. Bodies littered the field and Saxon women were moving amongst the corpses seeking lost loved ones.
'Why did you save me?' snarled Grysstha, rounding on the King.
The man merely smiled and turned on his heel. Flanked by his Guards, he strode from the field to a crimson tent by a rippling stream.
'Why?' bellowed Grysstha, falling to his knees.
'I do not think he knows himself,' said a voice and Grysstha looked up.
Leaning on an ornate crutch carved from dark shining wood was a middle aged Briton, with wispy grey-blond beard over a pointed chin. Grysstha saw that his left leg was twisted and deformed. The man offered the Saxon his hand but Grysstha ignored it and pushed himself to his feet.
'He sometimes relies on intuition,' said the man, gently, his pale eyes showing no sign of offence.
'You are of the Tribes?' said Grysstha.
'Brigante.'
"Then why follow the Roman?'
'Because the land is his, and he is the land. My name is Prasamaccus.'
'So I live because of the King's whim?'
'Yes. I was beside him when you charged the shield-wall; it was a reckless action.'
'I am a reckless man. What does he mean to do with us now? Sell us?'
'I think he means to leave you in peace.'
'Why would he do anything so foolish?'
Prasamaccus limped to a jutting boulder and sat. 'A horse kicked me,' he said, 'and my leg was not strong before that. How is your hand?'
'It bums like fire,' said Grysstha, sitting beside the tribesman, his eyes on the women still searching the field of battle as the crows circled, screeching in their hunger.
'He says that you also are of the land,' said Prasamaccus. 'He has reigned for ten years. He sees Saxons and Jutes and Angles and Goths being born in this Island of Mist. They are no longer invaders.'
'Does he think we came here to serve a Roman King?'
'He knows why you came - to plunder and kill and grow rich. But you stayed to farm. How do you feel about the land?'
'I was not born here, Prasamaccus.'
The Brigante smiled and held out his left hand. Grysstha looked down at it, and then took it in the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist.
'I think that is a good first use of your left hand.'
'It will also learn to use a sword. My name is Grysstha.'
'I have seen you before. You were at the great battle near Eboracum, the day the King came home.'
Grysstha nodded. 'You have a good eye and a better memory. It was the Day of the Two Suns. I have never seen the like since, nor would I wish to. We fought alongside the Brigante that day, and the coward-king Eldared. Were you with him?'
'No. I stood under the two suns with Uther and the Ninth Legion.'
'The day of the Blood King. Nothing has been right since then. Why can he not be beaten? How does he always know where to strike?'
'He is the land, and the land knows.'
Grysstha said nothing. He had not expected the man to betray the King's secret.
Of seven thousand Saxon warriors who had begun the battle, a mere eleven hundred remained. These Uther required to kneel and swear Blood Oath never to rise against him again. In return the land would be theirs, as before, but now by right and not by conquest. He also left them their own king, Wulfhere - son of Orsa, son of Hengist. It was a brave move. Grysstha knelt with the others in the dawn light before the King's tent, watching as Uther stood with the boy, Wulfhere.
The Saxons smiled, even in defeat, for they knew they knelt not before the conqueror but before their own sovereign lord.
The Blood King knew it too.
'You have my word that our friendship is as strong as this blade,' he said, hoisting the Sword of Cuno-belin high into the air, where the dawn sun glistened like fire on the steel. 'But friendship has a price. This sword will accept no other swords in the hands of the Saxon.' An angry murmur rippled amongst the kneeling men. 'Be true to your word and this may change,' said the King, 'but if you are not true I shall
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