CHAPTER 2
Some time later, many miles away, across hills, forests, valleys and rivers, Baeorn Maroboduus and his men tramped along stony paths, under the first clear sky in many weeks. Surrounded by wide fields, the smell of morning dew filled their nostrils. As the sun finally eased it's way over the horizon line, the long grass glittered like a rough hewn sheet of silver across the land, stretching away into the flat horizon typical of the English lowland, masked by a now faint curtain of autumn mist, that was slowly being drawn away in readiness for mid morning which was fast approaching.
With a good sleep and a hearty breakfast of venison, and whatever berries and fruits could be found in the hedges and thickets surrounding the camp (which as it turned out were thick as a brush with blackberries), the travellers were in high spirits as they marched on east into the climbing sun, with victory behind them and home and a warm hearth at the end of the road before them.
Baeorn too was in a merry mood, for his task was complete, and hopefully King Hengist, now the ruling Lord of London had a reward for his loyal service. News had spread like the plague even through the sleepy countryside of Hengist's victory and the city's fall, said to have happened upon the crucible of a mighty battle fought beyond the actual walls, with thousands dead on both sides. The best of the news came with the knowledge that the hard core of the British legionnaries and Campfwyr companies (The Briton champions, not dissimilar to the Saxon Heortegeneats) loyal to the British King now lay in their graves, under the first snowfall of the year.
Baeorn plodded as always, at the head of his force alonside his loyal Duguths, snatching blackberries from the bramble bushes that dotted the roadside in many places. He was just instructing himself to refrain from any more of these tasty morsels, lest he find himself sick on his feet after such a large breakfast (which, admittedly was finished much too soon before the morning's journey commenced) When he spied in the distance a lone horseman, cantering with some degree of urgency in the direction of the marchers.
He seemed to catch sight of the company that was tramping along towards him, and instead of making best his escape, he instead advanced at a gallop towards the Anglo Saxons. With a hand on the hilt of his blade, Baeorn assured his men that this seemed no enemy, but to be on their guard for any devious ambush that might soon be sprung. The rider eventually drew close enough to be seen with good measure, and Baeorn relaxed to see that the rider, clad in furs, mail and a coppergated helmet was most certainly a saxon.
"What business have you along this road, kinsman? For you are headed quite clearly in the wrong direction!" Baeorn said, chuckling. The rider brought his horse to a halt with a whinny. It was a mighty beast, locally bred and with jet black hair upon which a silvery sheen danced with the movement of its muscles. A steed worthy of the mightiest Jutish warlord, thought Baeorn.
"I am one of the Thegn Coenrad's Heortegeneats, I come to you on his behalf."
"Indeed you do..." replied Baeorn, noting the rider's cloak, an ornate golden brooch was attached to it, denoting his status.
"Chieftain, there has been an uprising at Ceintii, the Briton population have taken up arms, slaughtering our own defenceless folk, and seizing the town for themselves, declaring alliegiance to the British King. Thegn Coenrad is, as you know on campaign at the King's side and cannot intervene himself, so You have been tasked with reclaiming the town, and giving no quarter to the surviving rebel inhabitants. That is all." As the rider turned to leave, without waiting for a response, Baeorn raised his head and shouted,
"My good fellow! wait! What news have you of the battle of Londinium? I am eager of knowledge of its passing, at which my presence must have surely been missed!" The rider slowed t a trot alongside the company.
"It was a mighty battle," he began, his eyes full of seemingly fond memory. "Worthy of songs and epic tales - no doubt in fact, that it will be sung of for years to come across this new land... England, as it is becoming known as. The battle was fierce, the Britons fought like true warriors, and many of my kinsmen fell before their cold blades. Of course their men began to die easy enough, but it was the core of their great host - that would never retreat nor surrender. Outnumbered, they fought on against all omens and odds. A handful of Pictish warriors, with their baleful gazes and rabid fury - there were their champions too, clad in the finest scale, and that fought even on their hands and knees!" The rider glowed with pride, "I myself killed four of them! The last of which, I took his decidedly fine sword. See, here:" He did indeed have a long spatha sheathed at his belt. But then his eyes darkened.
"But what struck fear into the hearts of our warriors was the Romans... A whole company of them. There were rumours that members of Londinium's former Roman garrison did not depart with the rest of the legions, instead staying with their new families in Britannia. Well such rumours were true, chieftain! There cannot have been more than 60 or so of them present, but these men knew how to fight - truly the ancestors of those who once struck the greatest fear into the hearts of our people. Alone they killed hundreds of our warriors, and the battle was beginning to turn. Indeed, it would have were it not for the King. He led his bodyguard of Heortegeneats and Scylingdas right into the middle of the legionnaries. And so as Hermann of legend defeated the fiend Varus and his legions, Hengist slaughtered the Romans of London. His attack broke their formation asunder, and his warriors, seeming as mad as the dreaded Wulfbyrnen, tore the Romans apart. Seeing victory within grasp, our warriors pushed forwards and finished off the last of the British host. Our dead piled high, as did theirs, but our swords took more lives than theirs, and now the King feasts in the hallowed halls of London. The Britons are broken, fleeing north, their tails between their legs." He pointed north as if to emphasise the fact. but then he added, thoughtfully "At least for now..." Baeorn smiled with delight.
"An epic tale indeed my friend! Another page on the mighty saga that Hengist forges for himself in this new land Ride with us, kinsman. The road ahead is long, and I'm sure Coenrad will not miss you whilst in the midst of his merrymaking at the new capital. Ride to London after we reach Ceintii, I could do with some good conversation." Seeing reason in Baeorn's words, The rider accepted the offer.
"I shall ride with you for now, Baeorn Maroboduus. I am in no rush after all."
The Company marched on for many hours, changing course at a crossroads, now heading for Ceintii. There was a light rainfall around midday, bathing everyone and the surroundings in a glistening skin of moisture. Helmets and swords glittered and glinted as tiny droplets formed on their surfaces. Only the company Smith grumbled though, with worried thoughts of rusty equipment. Indeed, heavy rainfall had beset them quite severely this year, and each warrior had gone through at least one full set of iron equipment, with the notable exception of their precious Seaxes (small, Saxon shortswords used mainly for stabbing), which they kept out of the weather's harmful reach. All this had to be salvaged as best as possible by the tribal smiths, and more often as not, the equipment would be ruined. He encouraged his kinsmen to wear cloaks over their mail, but many were too proud to heed his words. Maroboduus was never a problem though. An ageing campaigner, a veteran of conflicts with the Franks and on more than one occasion the Romans (Albeit a very long time ago), he knew the value of reliable equipment, and took care in its safety. In particular (and this interested the Smith greatly) he wore a very fine coat of mail, made of interlocking chain links of two different metals, to create a triangle pattern. The darker one was Bronze, but of the other, more silvery metal, the smith could not put his finger on. It did not rust, no matter how much rainfall it was witness to. It must have been expensive, but the smith chuckled, reasoning that Baeorn likely did not pay for the item.
Baeorn, meanwhile pondered, in between making idle talk with the rider, of the task that lay before him. How large was the enemy force? While the Britons were a spirited people (and Baeorn greatly admired them for this), they were not stupid either, and it was difficult for Baeorn to tell how many of the populace would have actually taken up arms, rather than passively support their cause. He reasoned that only the fanatical Christian element would stand and fight against the fury of a Saxon attack, unless the rebels were led by a member of the Britons' Royal family. This, however seemed unlikely, and the population for the most part who had been under Saxon rule for many years now would not likely offer much resistance towards the restoration of Saxon rule. Baeorn would reward them for this, he decided.
It was late in the Afternoon when they, approaching Ceintii's borders, encountered the Saxon survivors, led by the head Comitati of the town, one by the name of Requildo. The ragged band consisted of what appeared to be the remainder of the saxon inhabitants of Ceintii, who had been herded like sheep to safety byt the brave members of the town Comitatus who had not been killed in the first moments of the revolt.
Among them were some Anglian mercenery riders, evidently in the town at the time of the uprising, and, for money's sake at least, decided their loyalties lay with the ruling Saxons and Jutes. The dirty, bedraggled peasants were half starved, pale and exhausted. Baeorn had not seen relief on a human face like theirs now, for many long years. While his warriors mingled with the survivors, sharing out what provisions they had, Baeorn sought out Requildo.
He was a man of immense proportions - Very tall, and thickset, with a neck as wide as the distance between his ears. He had bright red locks of hair that reached his shoulders, and flicked across his face in the wind. Clad in a large, heavy mail coat, and with a broken sword in his left hand , he was not exactly what Baeorn had expected.
He turned out to be a reasonable sort of fellow, and to lighten the mood, after initial introductions, Baeorn engaged in friendly conversation with him and some of his men, before taking the plunge and questioning them on the recent events.
As best as Requildo and the rest of the Comitatus could work out, the Rebels struck at the dead of last night, they had assassins slip into the Lord's hall to eliminate the entire comitatus, of whom they considered a great threat to their cause, and the townsfolk were quite fearful of. They largely succeeded. The original leader, and twenty others were killed before they came for Requildo. He was a light sleeper, and after killing two of his assailants with his bare hands, he siezed his weapon and roused his comrades, and together they slew their would be killers. The streets wherein uproar, screams filled the air, as saxon women and children were hunted down by furious rebels. Requildo and the comitatus began to fight their way through the angry crowd, who soon panicked and dispersed to cause havoc elsewhere. with thoughts of safety first at hand, Requildo led his men through the bloodied streets towards the western gates, rallying what survivors remained to follow him. They made it out of the town without too much trouble, leading a band of terrified Saxon women and children together with some loyal britons westwards along the road towards Londinium. He dispatched a courier with a hastily scrawled message to the King at the city, so that he might aid them in their plight. The same day, they were attacked by a rebel search party led by some Pictish mercenaries, and many of the women were taken prisoner, as well as more of Requildo's men being killed. Not to mention he lost his best sword. He gestured to the broken blade in his hand. Later they found Baeorn, and so here they were.
Baeorn nodded, inside slightly shocked at the actions of the seemingly peaceful folk of Ceintii. All thoughts of reward vanished from his mind. He was most interested in the sightings of more Picts in the region. Whilst pondering this coincidence with Requildo, the Anglian mercenery capatain, who went by the name of Cynfawr rode over to them and began to divulge some important information.
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Well thats it for now. I can't possible do any more today, so I've cut the update shorter than I intended to 
, but I really have no time left to get this done. Expect another update when I get back from my holiday in 2 weeks. 
[IB AAR] The Anglo Saxons
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