coast. The sight of land was gradually lost
behind them, and they ventured across an open, hostile sea, in search of the
fabled kingdom hidden behind curtains of cloud. Floating above deep water,
their superstitions and beliefs set fear in their hearts but gave strength to
their arms, for they faced far more than mere stormy weather. Every hardened
warrior amongst them had set out from land with the sure and certain knowledge
that below their small boat when they ventured into deep water, was an ocean filled
with giant sea creatures intent on devouring them, and that they sailed at the
mercy of angry gods given to unleashing their wrath at the slightest of whims.
Now at last, their journey had been blessed with
survival, and the voyage was near its end. The boats’ high prows carved and
painted to depict roaring mythical beasts, finally bit into the shingle of the
eastern coast of Britain.
The long oars were silently stowed, the large square sails lowered, and the
first Saxon warriors jumped down into the shallow water and ran up the beach;
their feet crunching heavily in the loose stones. It was the task of these
brave few to defend their brethren from any foes concealed within the tree line
at this, their most vulnerable time, it was an honour granted only to the
battle-tested elite. Behind them, others dropped down, gripping ropes of
twisted hemp, and began pulling the boats higher, beyond the clawing reach of
the breaking waves.
The lead boat stopped moving, a rough plank appeared
over the side, and a single Saxon warrior, ignoring the frenzied activity
around him, descended onto the beach. As soon as he felt land beneath his feet,
he stooped, picked up a handful of stones and, drawing in a deep breath, let
them drop slowly through the fingers of his clenched fist. Raising his huge
head, he cast about the beach and nodded in satisfaction.
His size easily set him apart from his men. He
carried the scars of countless battles, worn with pride as his right to rule
over others and marking him as a mighty warrior. He scanned the beach through
heavy, sunken eyes that squinted out beneath bushy eyebrows over a thick and
pitted nose. A strong jaw concealed beneath a thick dark beard, framed fleshy
white lips. It was a collection of features that made a particularly unpleasant
face.
As with most of his men, a conical helmet with
decorated nose guard protected his head but his had the addition of a layer of
chainmail falling behind to shield his neck. A woollen tunic fell past knee
level, covering thin linen britches, bound around the calves with leather
strapping for ease of movement. At his belt hung a sword, a pouch holding a few
personal possessions, and a seax, the long single-bladed knife favoured by all
Saxons.
Taking a deep breath, he removed his helmet and allowed
the cold wind to tug his long hair loose as he surveyed the coast with a
critical eye. The wind felt good, the chill causing little discomfort. The
country they had journeyed from was also one of biting cold and if anything,
the weather on this new land felt like home.
‘Britain.
I have waited a long time to greet you, and now at last I have arrived.’ His
voice was deep and carried an undercurrent of anger as he surveyed the land he
had come to conquer. He glanced up as one of his men emerged from the trees and
ran down the beach towards him, coming to
a stop in a spray of stones .
The warrior slapped an arm against his round wooden
shield, a greeting returned by the slightest of gestures. ‘We are close to a
small village,’ the warrior pointed to the south, ‘and there’s a large stone
building some distance inland. There is no one here to greet us.’
‘He will be here; we are of one blood, and one bone.
Burn the village, and then follow us inland. I shall take this building of
stone and await my brother and the others there.’ Dismissing the man, Hengist
returned to his vigil, scanning the beach and trees, his brow creased in
thought. Where
behind them, and they ventured across an open, hostile sea, in search of the
fabled kingdom hidden behind curtains of cloud. Floating above deep water,
their superstitions and beliefs set fear in their hearts but gave strength to
their arms, for they faced far more than mere stormy weather. Every hardened
warrior amongst them had set out from land with the sure and certain knowledge
that below their small boat when they ventured into deep water, was an ocean filled
with giant sea creatures intent on devouring them, and that they sailed at the
mercy of angry gods given to unleashing their wrath at the slightest of whims.
Now at last, their journey had been blessed with
survival, and the voyage was near its end. The boats’ high prows carved and
painted to depict roaring mythical beasts, finally bit into the shingle of the
eastern coast of Britain.
The long oars were silently stowed, the large square sails lowered, and the
first Saxon warriors jumped down into the shallow water and ran up the beach;
their feet crunching heavily in the loose stones. It was the task of these
brave few to defend their brethren from any foes concealed within the tree line
at this, their most vulnerable time, it was an honour granted only to the
battle-tested elite. Behind them, others dropped down, gripping ropes of
twisted hemp, and began pulling the boats higher, beyond the clawing reach of
the breaking waves.
The lead boat stopped moving, a rough plank appeared
over the side, and a single Saxon warrior, ignoring the frenzied activity
around him, descended onto the beach. As soon as he felt land beneath his feet,
he stooped, picked up a handful of stones and, drawing in a deep breath, let
them drop slowly through the fingers of his clenched fist. Raising his huge
head, he cast about the beach and nodded in satisfaction.
His size easily set him apart from his men. He
carried the scars of countless battles, worn with pride as his right to rule
over others and marking him as a mighty warrior. He scanned the beach through
heavy, sunken eyes that squinted out beneath bushy eyebrows over a thick and
pitted nose. A strong jaw concealed beneath a thick dark beard, framed fleshy
white lips. It was a collection of features that made a particularly unpleasant
face.
As with most of his men, a conical helmet with
decorated nose guard protected his head but his had the addition of a layer of
chainmail falling behind to shield his neck. A woollen tunic fell past knee
level, covering thin linen britches, bound around the calves with leather
strapping for ease of movement. At his belt hung a sword, a pouch holding a few
personal possessions, and a seax, the long single-bladed knife favoured by all
Saxons.
Taking a deep breath, he removed his helmet and allowed
the cold wind to tug his long hair loose as he surveyed the coast with a
critical eye. The wind felt good, the chill causing little discomfort. The
country they had journeyed from was also one of biting cold and if anything,
the weather on this new land felt like home.
‘Britain.
I have waited a long time to greet you, and now at last I have arrived.’ His
voice was deep and carried an undercurrent of anger as he surveyed the land he
had come to conquer. He glanced up as one of his men emerged from the trees and
ran down the beach towards him, coming to
a stop in a spray of stones .
The warrior slapped an arm against his round wooden
shield, a greeting returned by the slightest of gestures. ‘We are close to a
small village,’ the warrior pointed to the south, ‘and there’s a large stone
building some distance inland. There is no one here to greet us.’
‘He will be here; we are of one blood, and one bone.
Burn the village, and then follow us inland. I shall take this building of
stone and await my brother and the others there.’ Dismissing the man, Hengist
returned to his vigil, scanning the beach and trees, his brow creased in
thought. Where
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