I AM Oeric, son of Hengist, sixteen winters old and now reaching my father's height, though not yet his strength, which I shall one day surpass. I will fight beside him to earn my place with him in Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain, where our lives of courage and warring will be rewarded. Hengist and his twin brother, my uncle, Horsa, are sons of Whitgils, descendants of Odin, father of all the gods. We are Jutes from the land where the sun rises on Ocean, from the peninsula of the Danes that sticks out like a thumb from Germania, through the thin wastelands of the Old Saxons, Angles and Jutes. It is a place of sand dunes and heaths, wooded with oak and beach from which we can build our longboats to carry us to new pastures when our populations grow too large and food becomes scarce. News is abroad that Vitalinus, the Vortigern or high king of the Britons, is besieged on all sides. The Romans have fled, taking the best of Britain’s youth with them to defend their empire, and leaving only men who have grown weak with luxury. We are known warriors, hardened to battle, and the king’s emissaries arrive to offer us land in return for driving back his enemies. So in the spring we cut down trees and equip three ships with swords and axes, spears and lances, knives and daggers, with leather shields and helmets. More than five hudred men are on board, some women, too. My father takes one ship, Horsa another, and I am on the third. Our white horses are led aboard, and their prancing shadows are stitched on our sails to show who we are as we voyage south along the coast. Spending nights ashore, we reach the settlements of the Belgic tribes after six days. From here, we cross Ocean, the world sea, following the sun that Odin drives through the sky, as he casts favourable winds and quietens the waves for us, for we are his descendants and he is our protector. For five days, by oar and by sail, we lose sight of the land, until the white cliffs of the island of Tenatos come into view. Vortigern is alerted to our arrival and he greets us on the beach in the bay on its southern shore. He is dressed as a noble but his fawning gratitude reduces his demeanor to that of an abject slave. Our glittering band cannot fail to impress everyone, and even before we have begun our slaughter, we are rewarded with this island. Tanatos is the island of death, on the edge of Britain, scattered with burial mounds where the wind whips the souls of the departed. It is the first landfall in the south of Britain, a lump of chalk that is a small prize for our handiwork. Surrounded by cliffs, it is cut off from the mainland by a river, while its northern coast is on the estuary of the great Thamesis. Vortigern will soon have cause to be grateful, and will see that we deserve more. We fight his battles for him, crossing the Thamesis by the abandoned walls of Londinium and driving the Picts and Scotts northwards, back towards the borders that had been secured at the time of the Romans. But we are too few in number to follow up and consolidate our gains, and we call on our relatives, on other Angles and Saxons and Jutes, to join us, telling them that the Britons are worthless, but that their land is rich. There are rivers and hills, with oak and iron, pastureland and game, and farms that are well managed and productive, ready for taking. The next wave of Angles, Saxons and Jutes brings many thousand in 17 ships, including my young sister, Rowena, to beguile Vortigern and lead him to her bed in exchange for all of Kent, which drives the noble Briton’s own sons against him. Conflict is inevitable, and gloriously bloody. In the battles that follow against Vortigern’s son, Uncle Horsa is cast into Valhalla, where he will prepare a banquet for us. No man could wish more than to die for the honour of his band. My father, his anger raised, now wants much more than Kent. He is not just strong, he is cunning, and he calls for peace talks. A feast is arranged in the Cloister of Ambrius near the great henge of the Britons' amcestors, for reconciliation between the island's tribes and our hoards. Here we slaughter Vortigern's men and take him hostage. Then we begin to drive the Britons towards the west and Wales, and soon half the country is in the hands of our countrymen. To help keep the north under control, from our stronghold in Canterbury, my father invites his other brother Octa and nephew Ebissa, my cousin, to settle in Northumbria. My father lives a long life, not dying until I myself have seen fifty-four winters. Then I, in my turn, become ruler of the kingdom of Kent and our blood line lasts another 368 years under 14 further kings. Anglo-Saxons rule Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, Essex, Sussex and Wessex until they are united by Egbert, King of Wessex. And though some Celtic people still call us Germans, Egbert proclaims that from now on everyone should call the inhabitants of this country English.
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