Read Online Born of the Sun by Joan Wolf - Free Book Online Page B

Cuthwulf.”
    Sigurd’s brother gave a pleased smile and started to answer. “I think Father is looking for you,” Sigurd said first.
    As the boys watched Cuthwulf press his horse forward again, Ceawlin said on a note of suppressed laughter, “Good thinking. We were about to get another rendition of his exploits at Searo byrg.”
    Sigurd groaned. “At least you don’t have to live with him!”
    All the laughter fled from Ceawlin’s face. “I’ll take your brother to mine.”
    “So will I,” said Sigurd, and his face also was now perfectly sober. “So will I.”

    Beranbyrg was some forty miles northeast of Winchester, along the same road that Niniane had traveled with Cynric and Cutha a little less than a year before. Ceawlin had never been this far north before, and he looked around with curiosity as they drew ever closer to the Aildon hills.
    “This is nice country,” Sigurd said appreciatively as he too looked over the gently rolling country with its velvety green cover of grass. Farms dotted the landscape and sheep grazed peacefully beside the road.
    “The Britons are a strange, solitary people,” Ceawlin replied, a puzzled look between his brows. “Our people like to live together. Even the peasants have all their houses in one vil, and then they go out to work in the fields together. We cooperate with each other, help each other. These Britons, though, live in isolated farmhouses and work all by themselves. It almost seems as if they do not like each other.”
    “That is true,” Sigurd agreed. “Look at the way they deserted all the fine cities the Romans built. My father said that only ghosts walk at the place they call Calleva.”
    There was a steady breeze blowing off the hills and when Ceawlin turned to look at Sigurd his silver-gilt hair whipped across his lean, hard cheek. The expression on his face was stern. “They have no feeling for kingship,” he said. “That is why this Coinmail will never be able to extend his leadership beyond his own small tribe. It is their weakness, and our strength.”
    “They have certainly had no king worth the name since Arthur,” Sigurd said. He frowned in puzzlement. “I wonder why they are like that? Surely they must see how their lack of organization weakens them. Is it that they are cowards who don’t like to fight?”
    “It is that they are Christians,” Ceawlin answered. “This Christianity is a faith that takes all power from the king and gives it to the priest. It is the priest to whom they listen, not the king.” He reached up to push the hair off his cheek. “That is why it is the religion of defeat.” He looked again at the green rolling downs that now surrounded them. “All of this,” and he smiled with satisfaction, “will shortly belong to us.”

    Beranbyrg had been a fort since prehistoric times. The Celts had not used it for centuries, however, and it had fallen into disrepair until Coinmail refortified during the winter for his stand against the Saxons. It lay along the even more ancient roadway that went through the Aildon hills and all the way into East Anglia.
    Cynric sent scouts ahead to report on the state of the fort, and they returned with the information that the outer fortifications of Beranbyrg consisted of a substantial dirt bank and a ditch. The Britons had done a good job of repairing the bank; there were no weak points that the scouts could see.
    The Saxons made their camp about two miles from the British fort. It was late in the day and cookfires were lit immediately. The king, Cutha, and their sons sat cross-legged on the ground around one such fire and ate their evening meal together.
    “We will attack at dawn,” Cynric said as he slowly chewed his deer meat. “The less light there is, the better chance we have of getting across the ditch and the bank.” He continued to chew as he told them of his plan for the following day. The Saxons were to launch a three-pronged attack led by himself, Cutha, and Cuthwulf.