had long been discussed, riders from both sides had travelled back and forth between King Vortigern and the Saxon Lord, Hengist, many times over several cycles of the moon, discussing the details of the peace, the location for the meeting on neutral ground and the Saxons' demands for metals, food and land. For Vortigern, these final negotiations would take place with a desperate hope that a meeting of our two peoples would bring a final peace to our troubled land, yet it was a meeting that many had cautioned against, and so the King's party travelled slowly, carrying heavy hearts.'
The bard turned and pointed his finger around at his captivated audience, the grimy digit ending close to Calvador Craen's nose. Cal leant back into Usher, and they both fell back into several other boys of the village, people laughed, and the old bard cackled before leaping up and spinning around, his long grey robe flapping.
'Four hundred and twenty-eight warriors made that journey with their King, walking with hope in their hearts, but fear squirming in their bellies. The King and the warriors of the tribes had fought the Saxons for many years, yet that summer the battles with the Saxons had been especially fierce, and many warriors had been slain on both sides of the shield wall. Since the summer sun had cooled and the chill of winter was first felt, the Saxons had been sending emissaries who talked of a time of peace, they wanted a meeting so that a border could be drawn, a border that would be honoured and never crossed by either side.'
The bard halted his tale and once again looked around at the gathered tribesmen, a look of disgust finally contorting his features as his voice rose. 'But, those cunning and conniving Saxons should never have been trusted, he was warned by so many, yet King Vortigern believed he had to trust them, that there was no other way to save his people. He had already taken Hrotwyn, daughter of Hengist, to be his second wife, hoping that the union would bring an end to the hostilities, yet even that had not been enough for the two peoples to find a reconciliation or cool the Saxon's hunger for land. The fighting and raids had barely paused long enough for the wedding celebration. Some say that, in the end, it was the loss of his son, Vortimer, that finally brought the King on this journey and this desperate attempt for peace. His son's death had robbed him of all appetite for war or even for revenge; there had been so much blood spilt and he knew that somehow… it had to stop.'
Once again the bard paused in his tale. The central fire crackled and spluttered as it shifted, embers rolling and logs settling. It gave a good heat to the hall as the cold night whispered at the walls and the birds and animals nestled, rustling overhead in the thatch. The bard slowly began to stride around the fire, dragging his feet, head dipped low as if he too were walking with the exhausted, doomed warriors.
'On… and on… they trudged, as the wind tugged at them and the rain left them sodden. Across the moors, over the paths in the high hills and on through the bogs towards the chosen place that had been deemed agreeable to both sides, to the old flint mines of the ancients at Stanenges.'
Once more the bard slowly walked around the fire, his head bowed low as if he were carrying the weight of the travellers' fears, then he paused and glanced up, then stood straight, took a stick from beside the fire and flourished it in the air. 'Now remember if you will, the Saxons had first come to our land at King Vortigern's invitation, can you believe that?' He stared around at the children in the front row of kneeling figures.
'Three longboats full of fierce fighting men were paid to help King Vortigern, charged to aid his warriors in pushing back the raiding Picts. To send them running, back up into the cold north, for those Picts had stolen our crops and cattle and raided our villages bringing fire and death, too many times. For their
The bard turned and pointed his finger around at his captivated audience, the grimy digit ending close to Calvador Craen's nose. Cal leant back into Usher, and they both fell back into several other boys of the village, people laughed, and the old bard cackled before leaping up and spinning around, his long grey robe flapping.
'Four hundred and twenty-eight warriors made that journey with their King, walking with hope in their hearts, but fear squirming in their bellies. The King and the warriors of the tribes had fought the Saxons for many years, yet that summer the battles with the Saxons had been especially fierce, and many warriors had been slain on both sides of the shield wall. Since the summer sun had cooled and the chill of winter was first felt, the Saxons had been sending emissaries who talked of a time of peace, they wanted a meeting so that a border could be drawn, a border that would be honoured and never crossed by either side.'
The bard halted his tale and once again looked around at the gathered tribesmen, a look of disgust finally contorting his features as his voice rose. 'But, those cunning and conniving Saxons should never have been trusted, he was warned by so many, yet King Vortigern believed he had to trust them, that there was no other way to save his people. He had already taken Hrotwyn, daughter of Hengist, to be his second wife, hoping that the union would bring an end to the hostilities, yet even that had not been enough for the two peoples to find a reconciliation or cool the Saxon's hunger for land. The fighting and raids had barely paused long enough for the wedding celebration. Some say that, in the end, it was the loss of his son, Vortimer, that finally brought the King on this journey and this desperate attempt for peace. His son's death had robbed him of all appetite for war or even for revenge; there had been so much blood spilt and he knew that somehow… it had to stop.'
Once again the bard paused in his tale. The central fire crackled and spluttered as it shifted, embers rolling and logs settling. It gave a good heat to the hall as the cold night whispered at the walls and the birds and animals nestled, rustling overhead in the thatch. The bard slowly began to stride around the fire, dragging his feet, head dipped low as if he too were walking with the exhausted, doomed warriors.
'On… and on… they trudged, as the wind tugged at them and the rain left them sodden. Across the moors, over the paths in the high hills and on through the bogs towards the chosen place that had been deemed agreeable to both sides, to the old flint mines of the ancients at Stanenges.'
Once more the bard slowly walked around the fire, his head bowed low as if he were carrying the weight of the travellers' fears, then he paused and glanced up, then stood straight, took a stick from beside the fire and flourished it in the air. 'Now remember if you will, the Saxons had first come to our land at King Vortigern's invitation, can you believe that?' He stared around at the children in the front row of kneeling figures.
'Three longboats full of fierce fighting men were paid to help King Vortigern, charged to aid his warriors in pushing back the raiding Picts. To send them running, back up into the cold north, for those Picts had stolen our crops and cattle and raided our villages bringing fire and death, too many times. For their
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