for Usher to go
and see what was happening.
Moving with all the silence he had learnt from the
hunters of his village, Usher crept through the thick forest growth in the
direction of the sounds. It didn’t take long to find him. A Pict warrior, lying
eyes closed with his face wracked in pain. One of Meryn’s arrows protruded from
his chest and the Pict was clutching it, blood oozing between his fingers. From
the noises the man was making, Usher guessed he wasn’t going to live much
longer. That would leave only five, as long as others hadn’t joined them.
S ounds of
approach broke the silence. Someone was pushing cautiously through the bushes,
each footstep a soft rustle in the dead leaves. Usher shrank back, trying to lose himself in
the shadows beneath a large blackthorn bush. He held his breath, not daring to move. The dying Pict’s eyes fluttered
open as he realised someone was coming. Usher was surprised to see that, as one of the
other Picts came into view, the dying man appeared to be more fearful than
relieved. The reason soon became apparent. Instead of helping him in any way,
the newcomer ignored him and carefully scanned the area, then roughly pulled
off the fallen warrior’s pack and, without any ceremony or kindness, searched
him, paying no heed to the grunts of pain or words of appeal spat out in the
rough Pict tongue. Taking a knife and a few coins, the newcomer threw the pack
to the side, muttered something that Usher couldn’t understand, and then
swiftly severed the dying man’s throat with a sharp, violent cut. Without
another thought, he turned his back upon his fallen companion and began
studying the forest floor. Usher wanted to scream and run, but willed himself
to lie quiet and not breathe. He couldn’t take his eyes from the Pict.
Dark intense eyes stared out from a face that
glistened wet with patches of blue mud. Usher had heard tales of the Picts and
their blue-painted faces. Indeed, he knew that some of the tribes painted
designs on their skin with the same type of mud made from crushed woad plants,
but nobody did it in Usher’s village, and to be near this one was terrifying.
The smell of the man reached out towards Usher. It was stale and musky,
reminding him more of the smell of an animal, mixed together with something
altogether more acrid. Usher covered his nose. The Pict was squatting down no
more than five paces away. The warrior’s hair hung in thick greasy clumps, like
so many lamb’s tails hanging from his scalp, held back from his face by a band
of rough hide. A heavy beard caked his
cheeks with the mud making his face appear twisted and misshapen, Usher
shuddered and forced back an overwhelming impulse to simply turn and flee.
Snorting
noisily, t he
Pict continued to study the ground and then moved closer; following something
only he could see in the fallen leaves. Usher listened to his heart hammering
in his chest and offered up a silent prayer to the spirits of the woods.
A shout and then a scream from some way off made the
Pict look up, but he didn’t run, or turn away as Usher had prayed. Instead he
looked into Usher’s eyes and smiled.
****
Driven
by a stiff easterly wind, rain was falling in a constant misery from a thick
covering of cloud. Unseen in the early evening light, eight Saxon longboats,
each holding over sixty warriors, cautiously approached the coast of Britain.
The laboured rowing of the oars, dipping to each low beat of a drum, the sound
that had held them together, and brought them so far.
Their journey had taken many days of battling
through rough seas and bad weather without any luxury of shelter or rest.
Hugging the continental coastline, their passage had led them south from their
home, lured by tales of a rich land deserted by its Roman masters. An
invitation they could not resist.
Once far enough south, and at a point that they
judged was the narrowest divide, they had gathered their courage and turned
away from the security of the
and see what was happening.
Moving with all the silence he had learnt from the
hunters of his village, Usher crept through the thick forest growth in the
direction of the sounds. It didn’t take long to find him. A Pict warrior, lying
eyes closed with his face wracked in pain. One of Meryn’s arrows protruded from
his chest and the Pict was clutching it, blood oozing between his fingers. From
the noises the man was making, Usher guessed he wasn’t going to live much
longer. That would leave only five, as long as others hadn’t joined them.
S ounds of
approach broke the silence. Someone was pushing cautiously through the bushes,
each footstep a soft rustle in the dead leaves. Usher shrank back, trying to lose himself in
the shadows beneath a large blackthorn bush. He held his breath, not daring to move. The dying Pict’s eyes fluttered
open as he realised someone was coming. Usher was surprised to see that, as one of the
other Picts came into view, the dying man appeared to be more fearful than
relieved. The reason soon became apparent. Instead of helping him in any way,
the newcomer ignored him and carefully scanned the area, then roughly pulled
off the fallen warrior’s pack and, without any ceremony or kindness, searched
him, paying no heed to the grunts of pain or words of appeal spat out in the
rough Pict tongue. Taking a knife and a few coins, the newcomer threw the pack
to the side, muttered something that Usher couldn’t understand, and then
swiftly severed the dying man’s throat with a sharp, violent cut. Without
another thought, he turned his back upon his fallen companion and began
studying the forest floor. Usher wanted to scream and run, but willed himself
to lie quiet and not breathe. He couldn’t take his eyes from the Pict.
Dark intense eyes stared out from a face that
glistened wet with patches of blue mud. Usher had heard tales of the Picts and
their blue-painted faces. Indeed, he knew that some of the tribes painted
designs on their skin with the same type of mud made from crushed woad plants,
but nobody did it in Usher’s village, and to be near this one was terrifying.
The smell of the man reached out towards Usher. It was stale and musky,
reminding him more of the smell of an animal, mixed together with something
altogether more acrid. Usher covered his nose. The Pict was squatting down no
more than five paces away. The warrior’s hair hung in thick greasy clumps, like
so many lamb’s tails hanging from his scalp, held back from his face by a band
of rough hide. A heavy beard caked his
cheeks with the mud making his face appear twisted and misshapen, Usher
shuddered and forced back an overwhelming impulse to simply turn and flee.
Snorting
noisily, t he
Pict continued to study the ground and then moved closer; following something
only he could see in the fallen leaves. Usher listened to his heart hammering
in his chest and offered up a silent prayer to the spirits of the woods.
A shout and then a scream from some way off made the
Pict look up, but he didn’t run, or turn away as Usher had prayed. Instead he
looked into Usher’s eyes and smiled.
****
Driven
by a stiff easterly wind, rain was falling in a constant misery from a thick
covering of cloud. Unseen in the early evening light, eight Saxon longboats,
each holding over sixty warriors, cautiously approached the coast of Britain.
The laboured rowing of the oars, dipping to each low beat of a drum, the sound
that had held them together, and brought them so far.
Their journey had taken many days of battling
through rough seas and bad weather without any luxury of shelter or rest.
Hugging the continental coastline, their passage had led them south from their
home, lured by tales of a rich land deserted by its Roman masters. An
invitation they could not resist.
Once far enough south, and at a point that they
judged was the narrowest divide, they had gathered their courage and turned
away from the security of the
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