Warrior Woman: English Dawn, #3

By Christopher Webster

A tomboyish girl, fond of stories of shieldmaidens and waelcyries, gets involved a viking raid led by her older brother. The raid goes wrong, and her stepmother tries to teach her that her 'womanly weapons' have more power. She goes on to seduce one king of Britannia and kill another, thus playing as large a part in the conquest of that country as her father, Hengest – but can she ever find true love? This is the third 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: Feb 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224415694

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

At the Medwege Megaliths

Vortigern tried not blame himself for the death of Merlin, after all, it was Severa who had egged him on, and it was his Pictish bodyguards who had carried it out. Nevertheless, it unsettled him greatly. He was afraid of Merlin’s magical powers, and wondered if he could strike back from beyond the grave. Worse, the severed head of Constans reappeared in his nightmares, both waking and sleeping. His only recourse was his druid, Magan, so he sent for him and poured out his fears: Ten years ago you rid me of the bloodied head. But it is back again. You know why.

Merlin?

Yes.

My lord, do not trouble yourself over his death. He was a strange one, that one, and an enemy to our order. He claimed to serve an older god, whom he called THE ONE – but how can any god be older than Dus, for is he not the god who created the world out of a speck of sand, and gave us the first man, Dyn, and the first woman, Graig, out of a split oak tree?

But he had great magic.

Illusions, my lord. Nothing more. There is nothing to fear from illusions, except your own fear.

It has come back again, and I have visions of the head. What shall I do?

Sacrifice to Dus, my lord, but this time it must be the ultimate sacrifice.

You mean...?

Yes. A human sacrifice.

A grim smile spread over Vortigern’s features. Why not sacrifice two? I have just the men – Picts by the names of Gart and Eog.

It was a macabre affair. Magan insisted that the sacrifice must take place at the Medwege Megaliths at sunrise after the night of the next new moon, and that Vortigern should be there in person.

Vortigern arrived with his guards and the two Picts bound and gagged. Magan was waiting. He was silhouetted against a fire that provided the only light in the pre-dawn darkness. The wind made the fire flicker and the dim orange light cast weird, moving shapes on the standing stones as though the spirits of long ago were dancing gleefully around the fire.

Vortigern, breathing hard from his climb up the steep slope, almost changed his mind about what he had planned to do. He didn’t like the look of the standing stones, and he feared that two more deaths – murders, some would call them – would worsen his nightmares rather than end them. He stopped in his tracks and thought about going back, but it was too late. Magan had seen him, and waved to him to come into the circle.

He was dressed in full ceremonial regalia:  a druid’s mitre made of two bands of copper, one encircling the forehead, the other arching over the head. His robe was white and was so voluminous that it flapped in the wind making him look like some extinct bird of prey. In his right hand he held a large oaken staff wound with mistletoe.

You have come, then, said Magan.

Yes, said Vortigern.

Did you bring the sacrifices?

Why can’t we use a goat? answered Vortigern evasively.

A goat is for a cure for gutrot, or to make a love charm. It is not enough to give you another 10 years of good luck.

Very well – but I want something more if you can do it.

What is that, my lord?

Can you see the future?

I will ask Dus to reveal it to me.

Vortigern heaved a deep sigh, seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then said in a resigned tone: Here are the sacrifices.

He turned and signalled to the two soldiers, who dragged the prisoners towards the stones.

Remove the gags, said Magan.

As soon as the gags were removed, Gart blurted out: Vortigern made us do it!

One of the guards shouted, Silence! and hit him across the mouth so hard his lips began to bleed.

It has nothing to do with that, said Magan. You are a sacrifice pure and simple.

Then he signalled to his acolytes to prepare them. Two of them stepped forward quickly and emptied small beakers of liquid into the men’s mouths.

It is a soporific, explained Magan. They will calm down in moment.

The acolytes led the men away, and began to prepare them for the ceremony by untying their bonds, taking off their ragged clothes, and dressing them in white robes. Magan watched them for a while, then, seeming satisfied with their work, he turned to Vortigern.

You and your men must go to the edge of the circle. Whatever happens, stay there and say nothing. He waited for Vortigern to go, then threw some powder onto the fire. It flared up suddenly and then died down again. As it died down it gave off large clouds of white smoke. Magan’s eyes began to water. He rubbed them and coughed. Then he began to sway slightly, and his eyes rolled up, revealing the whites.

By this time, the acolytes had finished their preparations and the prisoners were taken to the trilithon in the centre of the circle. Magan moved to the trilithon, passed his staff to his left hand, drew his dagger and held both arms upwards. Vortigern, looking on from outside the circle, could see the druid silhouetted against the grey pre-dawn light. Magan stood stock still, waiting for something. Then the first ray of the rising sun shot over the horizon behind the trilithon. At the same moment, Magan cried out in an incantatory tone: "O Dus, derbyn yr aberth hwn a dod â lwc i Vortigern!"[1] and plunged the dagger, first into Gart and then into Eog. They choked, coughed up blood, and lay still. Magan was also still, his eyes fixed intently on the sacrifices, his chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply, still in a trance.

The sun rose higher and the terrible scene was lit with a cold morning light. Nobody moved.

Vortigern looked from the druid to the acolytes, wondering what was happening, and whether he dared say anything. At last, he said, tentatively, fearing to disturb the numinous silence: Well?

Magan swayed, still in a trance, and recited the prophecies that Vortigern had requested:

Ten years shall you rule under a lucky star

As long as you sacrifice to Dus and Branwen,

Abjuring the White Christ and all other gods.

A white horse shall cross the sea in a great snipe

And shall bring the broadsword to the painted people.

But a golden goddess shall drive you to distraction.

Sacrifice to Dus, and abjure women

and there is no power on earth that can harm you.

Magan came slowly out of his trance and said in his normal voice: Dus has accepted your sacrifice. You will have good luck for the next 10 years.

But what did it mean, the prophecy?

It meant what it said.

But it sounded like a riddle!

It was plain enough.

Not to me. Explain it to me. What is this white horse and great snipe? Who are the painted people and who is the golden goddess?

My lord, said Magan. With respect, these things refer to your life, not mine, so they must mean something to you.

All I can understand is ‘painted people’. That’s what we call the Picts sometimes.

So, somebody is going to bring a broadsword to them. Isn’t that what you want?

Yes, said Vortigern hopefully. It would be an answer to my prayer.

A prayer to Dus, I hope.

To any god who will listen.

Dus is listening, you will see. You will find that the white horse and the great snipe have something to do with the man who will help you against the Picts. There is no more I can tell you.

Vortigern seemed happy with this information and turned to go, but Magan called after him: Don’t forget the advice: ‘Sacrifice to Dus, and abjure women.’

I won’t, Vortigern replied absent-mindedly, for he was thinking of something else; of that white horse man who would rid him of the Picts.

Comen se Anglefolc

The crossing from Angeln to Britannia took several days and the weather was bad most of the way. By day the exiles were lashed by freezing salt spray, and by night they had to huddle under a sailcloth awning and try to sleep as best as they could in wet clothes – but their spirits were high.

I’ve heard they have hot baths in Britannia, said Hunlafing. I can’t wait!

Hot baths are weakening! said Hengest with a dismissive laugh. What’s wrong with a shower of good North Sea spray?

Freezing cold and too salty! It makes me thirsty!

Never mind, I’ve heard they have gallons of Gallic wine in Britannia! said Sigeferth.

Horsa will like that!

I hope he’s keeping from the beer! said Hengest, shading his eyes from the salt spray and looking back to where Seagull was, wallowing under the weight of their supplies.

We’ll drink ourselves under the mead-bench when we get there, laughed Sigeferth.

Hengest was serious for a moment. We might be driven back before we set foot in the country!

I thought we had been invited to help king – what’s his name? said Sigeferth.

Vortigern. We have, but you know politics...

Politics? No! scoffed Sigeferth. War? Yes! And if we have to fight, so much the better! – it will help me to build up a thirst!

At last, on the morning of the fourth day, they saw the coastline of Britannia in the distance, a grey streak dimly glimpsed through mist and rain. As they got nearer, Hengest made out the gleam of a watch fire on the distant headland, and a little later, the shapes of warriors gathering on the beach. This surprised and worried him. He leaned forward on the ring-coiled prow, trying to get a better look. I thought you said the shepherds had gone, he said to Sigeferth, remembering their previous raid.

That was further north.

I don’t like the look of it.

"It reminds me of what it used to be like when I was a hot-headed dreng: signal fires, soldiers – and hot work with a sword!"

Perhaps they’ve got a new shepherd, said Hengest. Better tell the men to be ready.

Sigeferth passed the word to prepare for battle, and the thegns opened the sea chests that had served as rowing benches and took out their spears, swords and helmets. Then they lifted their shields from their mountings between the oars.

Hengest could see the border guards clearly now. There were half a dozen mounted men, heavily armed, and twenty or so lightly armed levies – not enough to fight off his 260 thegns, but if it came to a fight, his men would be at a disadvantage when they disembarked, and his losses might be high. What should he do? Stand off and turn northwards to find a place where he could land unopposed, or take his chance with that unwelcome welcoming party? He was a Northman, and like all Northmen he believed that no harm could come to him until wyrd decreed it. So he gave the signal to beach the ships: a complex manouvre which involved rowing hard through the surf, leaping over the gunwales at just the right moment, and dragging the ship, helped by its own momentum, far enough out of the sea that it could not be washed back again. The men heaved, Hengest supervised, and the border guards waited with drawn swords. Then, with a rush of surf and the grinding of shingle under the keel, Great Snipe was beached, closely followed by Osprey and Seagull.

Hengest was first to jump down onto the shore, closely followed by the 16 men whose duty it was to drag the ship. That small step was a great leap for the Angles – as epochal as a another small step that would be taken a millennium and a half later – though for all Hengest knew, he might soon be stepping in the opposite direction, battle-worn and bleeding, with a battalion of British border guards at his back.

The coast warden came cautiously towards him with his guards at the ready. Now that he could see them close up, Hengest was even more impressed. The mounted guards were resplendent in old Roman armour: gilded helmets with cheek and neck guards, and corselets woven of rings so tiny that they would resist the sharpest points. Even Hengest himself looked poorly armed by comparison, his helmet was simpler in design, and his ring-mail coarser, with larger rings. The levies were less well-equipped – like levies everywhere, Hengest reflected. Just villagers who had seen the watch fire and had come with knives and pitchforks to defend their homes.

With these men behind him, the coast warden felt confident enough to do his duty and challenge the intruders, though he spoke in a language that Hengest didn’t understand. Hengest called for Bard, and, a moment later he was by his side. Can you understand him? he asked.

He is speaking Brythonic. I know a little of the language from talking to our British thralls.

Now that they had a translator, the coast-warden repeated his challenge: Who are you men, armoured in mail, who come in a warship to the land of Britannia? And who is this man, your leader? Long have I held this sea-watch and I have never seen a raider so well turned out. You are no pirate, I think, so tell me your lineage?

Bard replied for Hengest: We are Anglefolc. My name is Bard, a humble minstrel, but my master is Hengest, son of Wihtgils, son of Witta, son of Wecta, son of Woden. We come to the land of Britannia to seek your lord and serve him as warriors. If it is true, as we have been told, that his people are plundered by Pictish raiders, my master can offer 260 well- armed and war-hardened warriors to help him.

The captain of the guard took over now, looking down from the commanding height of his horse. If you wish to serve as mercenaries, you must come to Caer Ceint and see King Vortigern, but in token of your good faith, half your men must stay here.

Hengest agreed to this, and left his brother Horsa in charge of the men who were to stay behind, with instructions to camp near the keels, and to leave Britannia if anything went wrong, and on no account to come after him. Bard was to accompany Hengest as interpreter.

Take care! warned Horsa. You’re walking into the dragon’s mouth with only 130 men.

I will, said Hengest, and you can be sure that, if the worse comes to the worse, we’ll give a good account of ourselves.

Dus Be Praised!

Vortigern was glad he had followed Magan’s advice. He had made his sacrifice to Dus, and he had punished those two murderers at the same time. Best of all, he had been promised 10 years of good luck and help against the Picts, so he was in a bullish mood when he got back to Caer Ceint.

A feast to celebrate the death of Merlin! he cried, as he entered his palace.

Severa looked at him with surprise. What happened to all that remorse and hand-wringing?

I have punished the prisoners. Magan advised me to...but never mind about that, bring wine!

Magan again!

Why not? His advice gave me 10 years of luck last time, and now I’ve got another 10.

Superstition! I’m surprised at you! Your luck was the result of your campaign against Talorg. With him out of the way, of course everything went well – trade flourished and the country grew rich. But what are you doing now? Things are looking bad. The Picts have a new leader, and Aurelius, they say, is building up an army.

"And I’m trying to build up mine – but it’s the same old problem: