Nithing: English Dawn, #1

By Christopher Webster

A nithing – an outcast – is set upon by robbers and nearly killed, but he fights back, joins their band, and eventually finds a new bench-place with King Hoc of the Half-Danes. That nithing's name is Hengest, the hero of the Battle of Sonderburh, and he rises to become king's thegn, but things start to go badly for him when he is drawn into King Hoc's bitter feud with the Frisians. This is the first part of the English Dawn Pentalogy, which tells the story of the conquest and settlement of Britain by the Anglo-Saxons in the 5th century, set against the broad sweep of events in the Dark Ages: the decline of the Roman Empire, the rise of Attila the Hun, the raids by the Picts and the Scots, and the usurpation of the kingship of Britannia by the tyrant, Vortigern. These events are a prequel to the age of Arthur, and the final chapter of the pentalogy sees Merlin setting up the sword in the stone for the king who is to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EKP
• Release date: Jan 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224337620

Christopher Webster

In Conisbrough, in the West Riding, I spent most of my childhood, where there's an old castle, presiding over the local neighbourhood. The castle teased me with its mystery and got me interested in history. Later, at University, I took a Literature degree, choosing an option on Jane Austen and Regency Society, and also one on poetry: worlds which I loved to get lost in – and now I show appreciation by trying my hand at narration.

Book preview

Darkwood

N ithing! That insult rang in his head as he stumbled through the forest. A nithing is a nothing – an outlaw, a man with no home and no kin. He is less than a slave and has no rights. It’s as though he’d never been born. Only a short while before, though only seventeen years of age, he had been one of the highest in the land, a kinsman of King Angeltheow, honoured in his court, possessed of his own hall and retainers, and clothed in rich fabrics adorned with gold.

After the the king’s doom, he had been stripped of his rank and his rings, and even of his ancestral sword, Isenheard. His brother, fighting back unmanly tears, had promised that it would be restored to him one day, then thrust a bundle into his hand saying, Take this. It will keep the wolf from the door – and this. It is not so fine as you are used to, but you’ll find it a lot warmer.

It was a cloak of coarse, thick wool. Strictly speaking, he should have been exiled empty-handed, but the memory of his rank still lingered, and his guards were not without sympathy for the deed that had led to his exile. They led him to the border, a stream near the edge of a dark forest, and shouted their final warning as he splashed across it: Nithing! Never come back to Angeln![1] If you do, it will be the worse for you!

There was only one way to go, and that was to follow the narrow track that led into the forest. It was a dank, dark pine forest with huge trees towering into a green gloom. It was preternaturally silent, the carpet of pine needles absorbing every sound, except for the occasional croak of a crow or other carrion bird. It was cold in there, too. It had been a dull Autumn day on the plains of Angeln, but what light and warmth there was barely penetrated this damp, dark world. The nithing shuddered and pulled his cloak around him to keep in some little warmth.

Where was he going? He didn’t know. What was he going to do? He didn’t know. In all his life so far, he had had a plan; he had always known where he was going and what he wanted to do. But what would he do now? What did most nithings do? Just walked until the wolves got them, probably.

A pang of hunger gave him a purpose; he must eat. He sat down with his back against a tree and delved into his bundle. There was a loaf, some dried meat and a few apples. Feeling a little better now, he wolfed down the bread and meat, and would have eaten it all, had not a warning voice inside him told him to save some for tomorrow. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and wished he had a horn of mead to wash down his coarse meal, and a companion to laugh with, the sound of the gleewood,[2] the chanting of the scop,[3] and all the other hall-joys that he had taken so much for granted. He understood now why the Angle belief in the hereafter was built around a mead-hall, Waelhall, Woden’s hall, where warriors who died in battle feasted and drank sweet mead from curved horns while they waited for Ragnarok, the final battle between good and evil – which they were fated to lose. It was a powerful lesson in the ways of wyrd.[4]

The sound of the wolves was louder now, and the nithing wished he could make a fire, but where could he find dry wood in this dripping forest? And if he did find wood, how could he light it? There was nothing else for it but to sleep in a tree, though even that seemed impossible. The pine trunks towered high before they sprouted branches, and it was only when he found a fallen tree, caught against another at a steep angle, that he was able to climb to safety – safety, but not comfort. He tried to nestle in a fork in the branches, but it was uncomfortable, and to make matters worse, it started to rain.

He fell into a fitful sleep in which he dreamed of that wellspring of trouble that had, over many years, led him to end up as a nithing, soaked and freezing, in the fork of a fallen pine tree in a forest in West-Dene.

He was eight, and he and his brother, Horsa, were returning from the hunt with Wihtfrith, their uncle, and his men, when they saw in the darkness an orange glow like the glow of a furnace.

It’s the sunset, I think, Wihtfrith said, though looking puzzled and uneasy.

No, it’s not, it’s a fire-breathing dragon, joked Horsa.

But was no joking matter. The blackness that blotted the starlight was not a cloud in the night sky but smoke, and not just a little smoke – billowing black clouds of it.

The burh! The burh is burning! cried Wihtfrith, breaking into a run, and they all ran as quickly as they could, but too late! There was nothing to be done, no-one to save. Dead bodies lay everywhere, battered, bleeding or charred like firewood. Frightened survivors were milling around in confusion, screaming and shouting, while a few blood-soaked thegns ran among them, trying to restore order. Wihtfrith hurried to the high hall, hoping to find their kinfolk, but Byrhtwold, Wihtgil’s war-chief, still bloody from battle, held them back, saying with a shake of his head, It’s no use.

But my father? spluttered Hengest.

"Your father is already dead, I’m afraid. It was Frisian raiders who did it. They sailed along the River Eider, then came overland with their war-band. That never happened before, so they took us by surprise. It was more than a mere raiding party, more like an invading host. Your father and I went to meet them with his house-troops, but we didn’t have time to assemble the fyrd,[5] and there were not enough of us: 60 to their 300! We formed ourselves into a shieldwall; a frail fence against their massed ranks, and soon they were hacking at us as though we were so much firewood. We managed to hold our line at first, but one of the Frisians threw a spear at Wihtgils which wounded him, but not seriously. He threw his own spear, and it went straight through the Frisian’s byrnie and into his heart, but another spear hit him, this time wounding him badly. Wulfmaer pulled the spear from Wihtgils’ body and flung it back. It went straight through the man who had thrown it. Then another of the Frisians went for Wihtgils with a broad-axe. Wihtgils struck at him, but the Frisian was quicker and hacked his arm off. Blood gushed from the wound, and he fell to the ground. Aelfnoth and Wulfmaer rushed to help him, but there was nothing they could do; the Frisians surrounded him and hewed him to pieces, and Aelfnoth and Wulfmaer with him.

"When I saw this, I knew it was all over. Nevertheless, I tried to rally the men as best as I could: ‘Remember the vows we made to Wihtgils in the mead-hall!’, I shouted. We cannot leave him lying dead on the battlefield. Our duty is to avenge him!’

"Leofsunu answered: ‘I promise that I will not retreat one footstep! I shall avenge my lord!’ And he followed Aelfwine into the fray. The others shouted in support, and we went back into the battle fighting more fiercely than before.

"But it was hopeless. One by one those brave men fell until the few of us that were left clustered around the banner of the White Horse and the dead body of Wihtgils. I did what I could to embolden them with the words of the well-known lay: ‘Our courage will be keener and our hearts fiercer as our strength fails, and when we die, we know that we will lay honourably beside our lord.’

We held out a little longer, until we fell, one by one. I was knocked out by an axe blow, which broke my helmet, but fortunately, not my skull, and when I came round, the Frisians were gone. They fought their way into Wederby and looted the burh, taking everything they could, including many of our people to sell as slaves.

My mother? My sister?

I’m afraid so, answered Byrhtwold, I doubt that you’ll see them again, but at least they’re alive.

Bitter anguish burned through Hengest’s body with a heat that was greater than the heat from the burning hall. It was worse, much worse, than news of his father’s death, for at least he had died honourably with a sword in his hand and would be with Woden in Waelhall. But the idea of his mother and sister as slaves was too much to bear. He was only eight, and he only had a vague idea of the horrors that were in store for a female slave, but it was enough to bend him to his knees with grief. He cried with the hot tears of a boy, but vowed to the gods as a man:

See them! I vow to Woden and Vidar that I’ll save them and be revenged on the Frisian who did this!

The nithing awoke with a grimace on his face; he had done it, too. He had revenged his father and tried to save his mother and sister. But it had gone horribly wrong. It had been more like slaughter than revenge, and he felt bitterly ashamed of it, so much so that he felt he deserved this exile. After that bloodletting he felt a numb emptiness inside, a nothingness, so that he felt that he was a nithing indeed, and not just in name.

He was cold and hungry, and soaked to the skin with the dank mist that hung in the air, but at least he had half a loaf left over from the day before. He wolfed it greedily, all too aware that he would have to hunt for his next meal, and that would not be easy in this desolate forest, and without any weapon.

A twig snapped, and the nithing instinctively reached for his sword, only to find an empty belt. He clenched his fists instead, ready to defend himself, all the while trying to see through the grey haze. He could just make out the vague shape of the figure of man dressed in a cloud grey cloak and hood that seemed almost to blend with the mist. Who’s there? he challenged.

A familiar voice replied, It’s me, Bard, and another few steps revealed the grey beard, wrinkled visage, and piercing grey eyes of Angletheow’s scop.

How did you get here? said the nithing.

A scop can go where he pleases, said Bard, though I dare not stay long. Even a scop must be chary of associating with a nithing.

Then why did you come?

I brought you this.

He handed him a seax, a single-edged blade about a foot long. The nithing saw at a glance that, though it was of plain manufacture, without any ornamentation, it was of fine quality, and a touch of the thumb proved it to be razor sharp. He was deeply moved. You have saved my life, he said. With this, I can hunt. With this, I can defend myself. With this, I am a man again. But why? What am I to you that you risk your life to help me?

I am a scop. I wander the world following the threads that the Norns weave in their tapestry of wyrd...

I don’t understand.

...and I make songs and sagas out of them. You are already the hero of one.

I’m a nithing and no hero.

"You are a hero and no nithing. That’s why I am following your thread on the loom of wyrd. More than that, I will help to weave it, like I am doing now. But I dare not linger. Faren wel."[6]

A moment later, Bard had melted into the mist, and a moment after that, the mist itself began to melt, as a pale, watery sun penetrated the thick, green canopy.

But the nithing had no time for reflection. Even with a weapon, hunting would not be easy, and it might take all day to catch his next meal. The first thing to do was to turn his seax into a spear. He beat about in the undergrowth until he found what he was looking for; a reasonably straight branch, not too thick, not too thin, and not rotten. He cut it from the trunk, and then he tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt and used it to bind the seax to the end of the branch. Then he tried it out. It was not straight, and was ill-balanced, being too heavy at the end, and it was hard to throw it straight. Never mind. It was better than nothing. He would just have to get close to his prey before he threw it. But where was his prey? The forest seemed silent and empty. Sometimes he would hear a faint shuffling in the undergrowth, perhaps a badger, or catch a glimpse of dark red fur on the high branches, a squirrel, but he never had a clear sighting, let alone a chance to fling his weapon.

As he hunted, he followed the track. Sometimes he made a foray to the left or to the right, pursuing a hint of prey, but always he returned to it. It must lead somewhere, he reasoned, and at least it stopped him from wandering in circles.

In the afternoon it started to rain again, and apart from the drip, drip, drip of water from the leaves, he heard no other sound. It seemed that what wildlife there was had taken shelter, and his chances of catching his supper were remoter than ever. There was nothing else for it except to pull his cloak around his ears and doggedly keep following the track.

The rain stopped in the afternoon, but the forest still continued to drip. The animal movements started again, and he sometimes heard the croak or flutter of a carrion bird high in the canopy, but there was no prospect of catching anything to eat. He went to bed hungry that night, though the word ‘bed’ hardly describes his uncomfortable nest in a stunted tree.

He awoke to gnawing pangs of hunger, and scrambled down to continue his weary way. As the day wore on, he got weaker and fainter. Is this how it ended for nithings? he wondered, staggering through the unforgiving forest until you starved to death? There was nothing for it but to keep going; perhaps this track would lead somewhere if he could just get to the end of it.

The ground was rising now, and the trees were smaller and closer together. The track veered one way then the other, and sometimes he lost it altogether. It was hard going, and he wanted nothing more than to give up, rest against a tree, and wait for the end. But that stubborn spirit which had sent him on that mad expedition to Frisia – the one that had earned this exile – made him push on.

He heard a sound behind him, and a moment later, somebody seized his left arm, and somebody else his right. He was being attacked! But his years of training came to his help. In one fluid movement, he let himself go limp and fell to the ground, slipping out of his attackers’ grip. Then he rolled over, brandished his makeshift spear, and leapt back into the fight. But a spear is not much use at close quarters and his attackers were many. He wished then that he had his seax in his hand, and not uselessly tied to the end of a stick – then there would have been trouble! But as it was, his attackers overwhelmed him with little harm to themselves except a few black eyes and bruised ribs. They wrestled him to the ground, then rifled his clothing, only to find that he had nothing.

They were about to beat him up in their disappointment when an imperious voice ordered them to stop. The man, better armed and dressed and than the others, stepped forward to take a closer look at his band’s latest victim. Hengest saw the confidence of a leader in his eyes, but also a merry twinkle that suggested that he saw the funny side of the situation, but more importantly, that he wasn’t the kind of man to take life unnecessarily.

He’s poorer than we are! groaned one of the band.

He must be another of those nithings, said the newcomer. Then addressing their captive directly, he said, Who are you?

The nithing was about to reel off his list of titles when he remembered the words of the old lay: A nithing’s a nothing, an outlaw... so he said, with bitter bile in his mouth: Nothing, then added, more from curiosity than any desire to challenge, Who are you?

One of the others, even taller than his leader, answered for him, That’s Robjorn of Darkwood, and the nearest thing to a king hereabouts, so you’d better show some respect.

Thank you, Johan, said Robjorn, but I think, ‘chief’ would be more accurate than ‘king’.

King or chief, the nithing was not impressed, and spat on the ground to show it. Robjorn only laughed. Come, come! There’s no need for us to fall out. We have a hard life here, and the only way we can live is to...well...shall we say...levy a tax on travellers through our forest.

This seax is a pretty thing! said Johan, running his finger along the blade at the end of the nithing’s spear. We’ll take that.

No, we won’t, said Robjorn, We never rob a man of his means of making a living...or living! He gave a wry chuckle. He wouldn’t last a day without a weapon of some sort.

Not in this place, laughed Johan. There’re bad people about!

You look tired and hungry, said Robjorn. Come with us. We’ll give you a square meal and send you on your way.

So that evening, the nithing ate with his new friends in Darkwood. The food, although homely,