help in ridding us of the Picts, the Saxons were gifted an Island that lays off the eastern coast of the Trinovantes lands and it was theirs to call their own. Thanet it was named, which means fire in the old tongue, and there they feasted well and enjoyed the generosity of King Vortigern for several years. But once the Picts had been stung and the fighting was past, our Saxon allies became restless. More of their longboats were arriving after each winter season, and soon Thanet was found to be too small, and they began to spill across to farm on the mainland. There were now Saxon settlements where there had once been Iceni and Trinovantes villages, and so our allies became our enemies, the shield walls clashed, we fought and have been fighting ever since.'
The bard sprang around the fire swishing his wooden sword over the heads of small boys, fighting imaginary foes, he yelled and screamed his war cries until others in the hall also jumped up and called, shouted, and fought invisible Saxons. Finally, the bard sank to the floor, where he waited until the villagers had crouched back down and a calm had settled upon the hall.
'But the fighting had gone on for season after season without an end, the Saxon wasn't leaving, and peace had become all but a desperate hope as the numbers of the dead rose on each side, and so when the Saxons came suggesting peace, a meeting had been negotiated.
Once the King and his people arrived at Stanenges, the carts were unloaded, and a meeting hall was constructed on the open grassland. It was surrounded by the burial mounds of the ancients, close to their old flint mines, and there our people waited to talk peace with their despised Saxon enemies.'
The bard halted his tale once more, his bushy grey eyebrows rising as he held a finger high. 'Another curious thing,' his voice rose to a high, questioning tone, 'the assurance had long been agreed by both sides that no blade would be worn by any person at the talks, lest uncalled violence should break this chance of peace for both our people. And so it was that King Vortigern, his senior warriors, his advisors, and all of his men and women warriors… carried… no… blade. I ask you, can you imagine how it must have felt? To be walking almost naked amongst your enemy, the men and women you had so recently faced across the shield wall… with no blade in your hand? This was no ordinary courage.' There were murmurs of disbelief and fear from among the listeners, but the bard held up his hand calling for quiet.
'It was of course an uneasy meeting as the two sides first came together and approached each other cautiously like two packs of angry wolves. However, to begin with, all went well, words of greeting were spoken by both. Good words. Words of promises and regret at the blood that had been spilled, words of hope and trust and of new beginnings.'
Once again his face contorted in hatred, and he shook his fist, then looked up to the thatch, dropped to his knees and howled, 'Yet these words from Hengist… leader of the Saxons, were all just like the bleating of a sheep, for Hengist was really a wolf, and he had trapped our people; the Saxons had lied.' Cries of anger, shouts of outrage and the long drawn out wails of the old women filled the hall.
'As the warriors entered the hall they were called by the Elders of both sides to draw together, to mingle as new friends should, so they could share the great platters of prepared food and forge new bonds. Saxon sat with Trinovantes; Iceni drank ale with the same Saxon warriors who had driven him from his land and for a short time, filled with hope and promise, and the two peoples became one. Yet all this hope and trust was for nothing, for as the sun began to set over the burial mounds of the ancients, Hengist rose from his seat at the side of King Vortigern and called for his warriors to draw their
seax
, their long fighting blades that they had each hidden, strapped to the inside of their legs, and
The bard sprang around the fire swishing his wooden sword over the heads of small boys, fighting imaginary foes, he yelled and screamed his war cries until others in the hall also jumped up and called, shouted, and fought invisible Saxons. Finally, the bard sank to the floor, where he waited until the villagers had crouched back down and a calm had settled upon the hall.
'But the fighting had gone on for season after season without an end, the Saxon wasn't leaving, and peace had become all but a desperate hope as the numbers of the dead rose on each side, and so when the Saxons came suggesting peace, a meeting had been negotiated.
Once the King and his people arrived at Stanenges, the carts were unloaded, and a meeting hall was constructed on the open grassland. It was surrounded by the burial mounds of the ancients, close to their old flint mines, and there our people waited to talk peace with their despised Saxon enemies.'
The bard halted his tale once more, his bushy grey eyebrows rising as he held a finger high. 'Another curious thing,' his voice rose to a high, questioning tone, 'the assurance had long been agreed by both sides that no blade would be worn by any person at the talks, lest uncalled violence should break this chance of peace for both our people. And so it was that King Vortigern, his senior warriors, his advisors, and all of his men and women warriors… carried… no… blade. I ask you, can you imagine how it must have felt? To be walking almost naked amongst your enemy, the men and women you had so recently faced across the shield wall… with no blade in your hand? This was no ordinary courage.' There were murmurs of disbelief and fear from among the listeners, but the bard held up his hand calling for quiet.
'It was of course an uneasy meeting as the two sides first came together and approached each other cautiously like two packs of angry wolves. However, to begin with, all went well, words of greeting were spoken by both. Good words. Words of promises and regret at the blood that had been spilled, words of hope and trust and of new beginnings.'
Once again his face contorted in hatred, and he shook his fist, then looked up to the thatch, dropped to his knees and howled, 'Yet these words from Hengist… leader of the Saxons, were all just like the bleating of a sheep, for Hengist was really a wolf, and he had trapped our people; the Saxons had lied.' Cries of anger, shouts of outrage and the long drawn out wails of the old women filled the hall.
'As the warriors entered the hall they were called by the Elders of both sides to draw together, to mingle as new friends should, so they could share the great platters of prepared food and forge new bonds. Saxon sat with Trinovantes; Iceni drank ale with the same Saxon warriors who had driven him from his land and for a short time, filled with hope and promise, and the two peoples became one. Yet all this hope and trust was for nothing, for as the sun began to set over the burial mounds of the ancients, Hengist rose from his seat at the side of King Vortigern and called for his warriors to draw their
seax
, their long fighting blades that they had each hidden, strapped to the inside of their legs, and
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