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Vortigern walked down the rocky beach, his shoes slipping against the wet stone as the tides lapped at the beach. Around twenty ships were being pulled up onto the sand, men climbing out of them. They were large, tall and strong with hair and beards as ragged as the fur cloaks that they were wearing. The Saxons would make a fine army and Vortigern needed a strong army. Since the Romans had left, every single lord with a household guard or several friends would proclaim himself as king. Vortigern had risen above them all but he wondered how long it would be until someone else would try and beat him.
As they clambered out of their boats, the Saxons were chanting some sort of poem in their foreign tongue. Vortigern couldn’t understand a single word of it. He didn’t mind though. He didn’t need a choir of softly spoken Greeks; he needed the Saxons’ weapons and their muscles to swing them. From the lead boat came a giant of a man, his hair twisted and knotted as he marched through the sand with his feet sinking deep with every step.
“Vortigern,” the man boomed, standing in front of him. Vortigern suddenly felt like a child again, the man standing at least two feet taller than him.
“Hengist,” Vortigern said, offering the man his hand to shake. However Hengist merely grunted and pushed past him.
“Is this the land you give to my people and me?” Hengist asked, his eyes running over the beach and the fields beyond.
“Yes,” Vortigern replied. “It is called the Isle of Thanet and it shall now belong to you under my protection.”
The Saxon laughed, the chuckle coming out like a growl as he looked down at the Briton in front of him. “That is a funny joke, Vortigern. But nevertheless, my army is now your army. We shall fight for you and protect you, Vortigern, and we shall settle here on this isle.”
It was then, as Vortigern led his newest ally up the beach, that he decided to ask about the poem that was still being chanted on the beach, the coastal winds floating the words up to them. The large Saxon just laughed again, booming that it was just a normal seafaring poem and he should pay no attention to it. Nodding, Vortigern put the strange words out of his mind and with a happy smile pictured his enemies bowing down to him and his new army.
But the song they were singing said.......
Goddess-curls ride beneath our ships, grinding the courage from our souls The sun does not shine upon us, strapped hidden above the clouds Our own lands slipped from sight, lost between the arrow-water Broken and flooded and tormented by war, best years long passed We seek to find a new land; we hope to find bountiful pastures Tales were spun about a not faraway island, straining with beautiful sights Its people are in despair, its leaders lost in an Empire’s last gasps They will offer us no fight, fraught with fear and fright Sheep-skin garbed and unarmed, great will be their loss Not barren is their land, bright will be our rewards We seek to find a new land; we will not be stopped by all.
Here is Richard reading the story to you.
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