Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3) Read online

  Though she dreaded their destination, the journey itself was pleasant. The weather was mild and the countryside green. They passed through several villages on their way, sometimes stopping to visit people that Jørren or his eoldermen knew. In all of the villages, however, Jørren’s standard elicited respect. Everyone they encountered on the road or in the villages, be they noble or peasant, knew and respected the raven sigil of his clan.

  At night, Arhianna listened carefully to the conversations among the men they lodged with, hoping she would hear more about what was happening in the borderlands.

  They reached Thanceastre on the morning of the third day, a little sooner than anticipated. News of their arrival spread quickly. Within minutes, they were met by the same man who had delivered Hengist’s summons to Jørren in their village three days before. “Welcome to Thanceastre, Earl Jørren. Follow me, please.” Like the ports of Dubris and Ebbsfleet, the city was heavily populated, with an active and lively marketplace. It took them some time to make their way to Hengist’s hall.

  “The Symbel Feast will be held tonight, just after dusk,” the messenger relayed as they dismounted. He turned them over to servants, who showed them to their quarters. Washbasins were brought in, along with combs, a bowl of fresh rosemary and lavender, and a cauldron of water. Arhianna and Ragna boiled the herbs over the fire and poured the water into the washbasins. After it cooled, they tipped their heads in and soaked her hair, washing out the dirt of the road.

  “Do you have any advice for me tonight?” Arhianna asked from inside her basin. “I’ve never been to a Symbel Feast.”

  Ragna raised her head up and wrapped her hair in a cloth before answering. “Tonight, Jørren will swear fealty to Hengist, as will several other earls. Listen like an owl and watch like a hawk, do not speak unless spoken to, or do anything else to call attention to yourself. You have a tendency to speak your mind without considering the consequences. We have been given good land and ample goods, and though Jørren and I are of Hengist’s family, we have done nothing to earn them. We are completely in his debt and cannot refuse any request he makes of us.”

  Arhianna was not offended. She was aware of her shortcomings and appreciated Ragna’s honesty. They finished washing and changed their clothes. She took Ragna’s advice to heart and chose something drab and loose, removed all her jewelry save her wedding ring, and pinned her hair tightly and simply to her head. She regarded herself in the glass. She was presentable enough to show respect, but had hidden her most beautiful features rather than calling attention to them, as she would normally do on such an occasion.

  Jørren came for her soon after. He seemed oblivious to her efforts to make herself mundane. He smiled down at her, caressed her cheek and kissed her neck, stopping to breathe in the smell of her hair. “I wish we could stay here awhile, but it is time to go.”

  “Later, then.” She kissed him and took his arm.

  He led her through the corridors, following the sound of music and the smell of smoke to the largest hall Arhianna had ever seen. It was long enough to entertain three-hundred comfortably. Fires blazed in four separate hearths, two on each side. An army of torches, fueled by globs of animal fat, smoked and danced above their heads, casting long shadows and blackening the walls. They were shown to their seats. Ragna joined them soon after. Young women roamed up and down the rows of guests, pouring pitchers of beautiful golden mead into any outstretched drinking horn. Ragna took a modest sip and shot Arhianna a look. “Good mead, but strong. Be careful.”

  Arhianna nodded.

  Ragna surveyed the hall from behind the rim of her horn, careful not to let her eyes rest too long on anyone in particular. “As I told you, Jørren is not the only earl who has come to pledge his fealty.”

  Arhianna eyed the men she judged most powerful. “Who else? Do you know who they are?”

  “There.” Ragna nodded toward a man clad in silver wolf pelts across the table to their left. “Over there,” she added, looking straight ahead at a man with a beard as red as Arhianna’s hair. “And over on the opposite table, to our right—the one who looks as if he has a storm brewing in his eyes.”

  Arhianna knew exactly who she meant. He was one of the men she had noticed first. He was thick-lipped and heavy-browed, with his left eye pinched in a permanent squint. She could not tell if it was an injury or simply his expression. He neither spoke nor smiled at anyone, and was not drinking. He sat erect in his chair, regarding everyone around him with what looked like either mistrust or disdain.

  Hengist, in contrast, was a man whose reputation was more notorious than his appearance. He laughed and smiled often, calling attention to his high cheekbones. He sat upon a prominent perch at the end of the hall, flanked by privileged guests. Arhianna wondered why Ragna was not among them, for she was his mother’s cousin, but perhaps family was not the deciding factor in such matters.

  Unlike his mother, Jørren was not moderating his drinking. She was about to caution him, as Ragna had done with her, but it was not necessary. Hengist stood to speak and the music stopped. He raised his gold-rimmed horn high in the air. “Was hail, my people!” He scanned the hall, smiling and meeting eyes.

  They all held aloft their horns and replied in unison, “Drinc hail!”

  Hengist smiled, revealing a row of long, white teeth. “My friends, you have arrived just as the fruit of this land has ripened! And I tell you, it hangs low—we have but to reach out and pluck it!”

  The hall erupted into a deafening roar of cries accompanied by the rolling thunder of fists and dagger handles pounding upon the tables.

  Hengist drained his horn and began roaming the hall, looking every earl in the eye. “The Brythons are weak cowards, who make false promises!” He made a face as if he had smelled something foul. “They do not deserve this land!” He turned about, his arms outstretched.

  The men cried out in agreement.

  “I say we must take it from them!” He clenched his fists in the air as if he were crushing an animal’s neck, inciting the men into another frenzy.

  Arhianna felt sick. Men like Hengist had a hunger for power that could never be satisfied. Who would stand between Hengist and her homeland, when the time came? Certainly not Vortigern. He was Hengist’s dog, grateful for scraps from his table.

  “Let us eat!” Hengist bellowed, startling her from her thoughts.

  Tremendous trenchers heaped with roasts of beef, mutton, venison, game fowl, rabbit and wild boar were brought out and set upon the table. Bowls of parsnips, cabbage, onions and radish greens were laid alongside them, followed by an endless parade of servants, who roamed back and forth between the tables with baskets of bread and pitchers of ale and mead. Musicians kept the hall lively, but Arhianna was not impressed. Taliesin would put them all to shame. I wish I were home. Away from this terrible place. Though there was more food than she had seen in years upon the table, she scarcely ate. She had no appetite.

  When the food was gone, the earls of the invited clans were called to stand and take their oaths.

  “Earl Oeric!” Hengist’s advisor bellowed.

  The dark and somber one stood up and walked forward. He was short on words, but they must have been the right ones, for Hengist seemed content and accepted him.

  After he returned to his seat, Hengist’s advisor cried, “Earl Wulfstan!”

  The earl dressed in pelts stood and approached the dais. At first, he spoke at length of wolves and their loyalty to their pack. “My people live like wolves. They will die before they will betray their pack, unlike these Brythons, who scheme behind the backs of the men they call allies. Now, we pledge our loyalty to you, noble Hengist.”

  He took the oath and Hengist accepted him.

  “Earl Haldor!”

  The red-haired chieftain went forward. He spoke a dialect that Arhianna did not understand. She turned to her husband for help.

  “He is a half-Dane,” Jørren explained.

  “Half-Dane? I thought they were you
r enemies.”

  “That is something too complicated to explain right now.”

  She was about to ask him another question when Hengist’s advisor called out, “Earl Jørren!”

  Jørren squeezed her knee, stood up and approached the dais. Two of his warriors followed him, carrying the great chest that held all the treasures of their clan.

  “Earl Hengist,” Jørren began, “noble chieftain and bringer of fortune to your people, I cannot imagine a more generous host draws breath upon the earth. Only in Valhalla would the tables be more generously laden or the women more beautiful.”

  There were cries of approval and cheering. Arhianna smiled at her husband’s choice of words. At first, she had found his eloquence surprising, because he spoke so rarely. As she had learned the language of her new people, she realized that, though he seldom spoke, he almost always spoke poetically. Once she learned Woden was both the god of war and poetry, she understood the efforts made by the men of the clan to choose their words wisely.

  “I pledge to you my sword and the loyalty of my clan. My warriors and I will follow you to the edge of the sea to battle Ragnarok, if you so desire it. You have but to ask.”

  Jørren kneeled before Hengist to solidify his oath as the others had done. When bidden, he stood up and signaled to his warriors. They brought a chest forward and set it down in front of Hengist. Jørren opened it proudly, revealing gold cups, plates, daggers with ornate hilts, large chunks of amber, brooches, pelts and coin.

  “Beautiful gifts,” Hengist said in appreciation, but Arhianna could see in his eyes they were nothing special to him. He likely had a hundred chests just like it, filled with the personal treasures of the other clans who had come to serve him. Arhianna wondered how many wedding rings rolled within that chest and how many wives wept over their loss. She glanced down at her own ring and felt ashamed. Not because she felt Hengist should have it, but because so many of her fellow clansisters had given theirs up. It did not feel right to still have hers.

  Unexpectedly, Jørren summoned her and Ragna to join him in front of Hengist.

  Hengist looked pleased to see them. “Ragna, my cousin, I am happy you have come with your son. After losing my brother, I long for the company of my own blood.”

  Ragna bowed her head and curtseyed. “Thank you for the generosity you have shown us, cousin. We are most grateful and eager to serve you.”

  Jørren motioned for Arhianna to step forward. “This is my wife, Lady Arhianna.”

  Hengist grew suddenly sober. His laughing eyes became bold and intense. “She is a great beauty. To your credit, your sons will be strong, and, thanks to her, they will be handsome as well.”

  Some of the men laughed at the remark, but it made her shrink inside. Her blood had come upon her that very morning.

  “I was sorry to hear Hraban is no longer among you,” Hengist added. “He was a great warrior. He surely sits in Valhalla.”

  “He surely does,” Jørren replied. “He died as he lived, with sword in hand.”

  “So I hear. I understand he was defeated by the father of your wife, is that so?”

  Arhianna’s stomach dropped.

  “He was,” Jørren answered.

  “I have also heard that he was Hraban’s bastard son, by one of his slaves. Is that also true?”

  Hearing her father talked of with disrespect caused Arhianna’s blood to boil. She could feel heat kindling in her fingertips, and an image of Hengist’s throne engulfed in flames leapt unbidden into her mind. She felt her throat constrict.

  Ragna reached over, took her hand and squeezed it.

  Hengist did not seem to notice the offense he had caused her. Either that, or he did not care. “The granddaughter of Hraban the Terrible. Your wife is of strong blood, Earl Jørren.” He paused a moment and shook his head. “Do you not find it extraordinary that, after losing eight sons before they could give him a grandson, the great Hraban the Terrible, who thought he would die heirless, was killed by his last living son, whom he never even knew he had? It is truly a story for the ages, is it not?”

  Jørren nodded. “It is one for the bards, to be certain.”

  Hengist looked back at Arhianna. “Come forward,” he commanded.

  Arhianna glanced at Jørren and Ragna, who gave her looks of encouragement. She walked forward.

  He regarded her a moment. “You remind me of my daughter. The two of you are gripped in similar, yet opposing positions, do you know that?”

  Arhianna shook her head, not grasping his meaning.

  “Renwein married her father’s ally, who has become his enemy, and you married your father’s enemy, who has become his ally.” Hengist gave her a half-smile, bemused with his observation. “It is unfortunate that my daughter’s situation is not the same as yours, for there is nothing I loathe more than betrayal. Now, I have no choice now but to kill my daughter’s husband. Do you not find that unfortunate?”

  Arhianna could barely choke out the words. “I do, my king. Most unfortunate.”

  The rest of the evening was nearly impossible for Arhianna to withstand. On and on the music played and the drink flowed, and the guests grew louder. She had no taste for any of it, yet knew it was her duty to appear she was enjoying herself. It seemed like an eternity before the cock crowed and Hengist decided to retire, allowing the rest of them to return to their quarters without reproach.

  Once they were in bed, she pulled Jørren’s arms tightly around her, relaxing into the illusion of safety she felt within them.

  ***

  They left Thanceastre after four days and returned to Thanet. Being away from the clan for nearly two weeks made Arhianna realize how attached she had grown to everyone. She felt awash in thankfulness as they rode into the village, as if she were breathing in happiness instead of air.

  The next few moons were good ones, in spite of her ever-present anxiety. They finished building their houses and harvested a good many turnips, beans and cabbages that would help get them through the winter. What they did not have time to grow, they labored for, helping out during harvest on the adjoining farms for a portion of their crops. With the plentiful fish and fowl near their land coupled with their farming efforts, they would have plenty of food to get through the winter.

  Arhianna felt herself growing more optimistic as fall came to a close. Perhaps Vortigern’s sons had been the problem, acting of their own will, and Vortigern had remained Hengist’s ally. Perhaps now that Vortigern’s sons are dead, he and Hengist will reconcile and we will have peace. Vortigern is, after all, his daughter’s husband. Surely, that must count for something? So much time had passed without trouble or incident that Arhianna managed to convince herself things had happened exactly as she had imagined. Then, in one night, all her hopes were scattered, like leaves stripped from the trees in a thunderstorm.

  “Hengist has contrived a plan to rid ourselves of Vortigern and his warlords forever,” Jørren announced one night as they lay in bed.

  Arhianna propped herself up on her elbow and looked him in the eye. “Are you to go to war, then?”

  “No. Hengist has summoned the warlords of the Brythons, Vortigern among them, to meet him at Ambrius, and there make peace.”

  “Make peace?” Arhianna asked, taken aback. “Truly? Where has this change of heart come from? He has done nothing but speak of taking land from the Brythons since we’ve arrived.”

  “It will be a peace of a different kind,” Jørren explained. “The peace of silence, for he means to murder them all. He seeks to avenge his brother Horsa and clear the way for his people to move west.”

  Stunned, Arhianna stared silently at her husband, overwhelmed with disgust. “He cannot mean it!” She shook her head in disbelief. “Has losing his brother robbed Hengist of all honor? Vortigern is a snake and deserves to die for his treachery, that I do not deny, but he also lost loved ones—both his sons! To summon the lords of your enemies to table under the guise of making peace and then murder them? Nothing coul
d be more dishonorable!” She felt appalled. “Nothing, Jørren!” Hospitality was sacred to her people. They would never do such a thing, no matter how devious the enemy. “You cannot mean to be a part of this, can you?”

  He did not answer.

  “Please, tell me you won’t do this!”

  Jørren remained silent, and Arhianna felt her stomach drop.

  “Jørren!” she said, bolting upright.

  “I cannot refuse!” Jørren yelled out angrily. “Don’t you see? I have no choice! Do you not remember me pledging Hengist my sword?”

  “But you can!” Arhianna shot back, her temper rising like high tide. “For the last time, let us go to my father! He is an honorable man and would never do such a thing, nor ask his men to!”

  “You’re a fool if you think we can simply leave this place and head west to your father,” Jørren said with an unkind laugh. “My men and I must do whatever Hengist demands of us, as we swore to do.”

  Anger raged like a caged beast within her ribs. If they had simply gone to her father in the first place, they would not be in this position. “You’re the fool,” she seethed, “and now, you’ll be a fool with no honor!”

  Jørren’s normally stoic face twisted at the insult, and he slapped her across the face.

  Arhianna’s pride swelled through her like a tidal wave, and it was all she could do to control her desire to launch flames at everything around her. “So be it!” she yelled at him. “Stay here and serve a devious king, but I won’t!” She jumped from their bed and pulled on her boots.

  He moaned and got out of bed. “Gods, Arhianna.” His voice was strained with fatigue.

  Arhianna said nothing, for she knew if she opened her mouth, sobs would come out instead of words. Jørren came and gathered her up in his arms, but her anger was not so easily quelled.