Unpublished - May 10, 2026
From the unpublished historical fantasy novel WHITE HORSE, RED FIELD by C.M. Hind. This excerpt is shared for portfolio purposes only and does not constitute first publication.
Horsa wasn’t Hengest’s brother, though she dressed that way: hair hacked short, loose breeches, and tight linen bindings beneath her tunic. She didn’t darken her jawline with soot or deepen her natural voice. This wasn’t mummery. She simply wanted to be seen as warrior first, woman never.
When that one-eyed Róm-wealh guard tried to search her for hidden weapons, she showed him her fist up close. The back of his head struck the door. He rebounded and went down.
She cursed, glaring at her fist—blue tattoos against white knuckles, a jagged cut now welling blood. Traitor! You might have failed us right from the start! Her smug fist had nothing more to say.
An outside stair had brought them to this balcony overlooking the courtyard and a closed door. They were exposed, and high up. Faces turned to stare from across the stone-paved courtyard, several armed men already approaching. It was a long way down past the railing. Even if their ankles survived the drop, they’d still be hemmed in by massive walls. All that stone. More than the sea-cliffs of Rugiland. But no quickening breeze off the water—only a steady heat radiating, dry and odorless. The balcony vibrated as boots started up the steps. Hengest blocked the head of the stairs. What he’d do with no weapons of his own was an open question, but he meant well.
The door flew open and a man stepped out, shouting in Rome-speak. He was tall, matching Horsa’s height. Keen eyes assessed the scene, their clothing, and lingered for a heartbeat on her heavy gold arm-rings. The fallen guard braced his forearms, head hanging. The leather band holding his painted false eye had gone askew, revealing a puckered socket. Tough bugger.
“Explain yourselves.” The tall man spoke Anglisc, broad and heavy like a Saxon but with odd precision. Not his first tongue.
“We surrendered our weapons to the gate guards,” Hengest explained, still guarding the stairs. “But this fellow didn’t believe us.”
“So you assault my thegn? I should have you flogged and cast out for that.”
One-eye adjusted his band and spat foreign nonsense. He jabbed a finger her way.
Horsa squeezed the ridged-worn rail behind her, hiding her hands, holding back her fists. “Your thegn laid hands on me.”
“A misunderstanding, I expect.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That doesn’t explain why you are outside my office.”
Hengest held his position. Her brother’s shoulders were tense, his fists clenched as tight as her own. Men crowded the stairs beyond him, a bunch of angry frowns and wary eyes.
“We seek land and employment under Vortigern,” she said. “Is that you?”
“I’m Wortomar. What you might call the Shore Ward.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose we should continue this conversation in my office.”
He addressed his men in Rome-speak, the authority in his tone unmistakable in any language. They dispersed with some reluctance. He helped One-eye to his feet, ushered him past Hengest and sent him down the stairs with a few parting words.
“You two: follow me.”
Hengest followed Wortomar inside. Horsa lingered for a moment to remind her mouth and fists to behave. A troop of horsemen entered the fort, hooves clomping. The sight should have settled her. But the mounts were dull-coated and slow-footed, their tails hanging lank behind them. These Romans might build in stone, but they couldn’t care for horses worth a shit.
Wortomar cleared his throat, his hand on the open door-edge, waiting on her. She hurried to join her brother inside.
They entered a well-furnished space: an elaborate wood and leather seat, a round table with legs carved to resemble dog paws, upright chests with their own doors. Light filtered through framed sheets of scraped horn, milky bright, welcoming light while barring the wind. One had been removed. The place smelled fresh. Not a hint of smoke-stink or earth-must.
Horsa winced at her brother, apologetic, massaging her sore knuckles. Hengest shrugged. Wortomar took the only seat, leaving them standing.
“Your names and origins?”
Horsa squared her shoulders. “I am Horsa, this is my brother Hengest. We’re children of Wihtgils of Angeln.”
“Hengest—that means ‘gelding,’ doesn’t it?”
Hengest tensed but didn’t rise to the bait. Horsa’s hand twitched toward where her seax should be—most folk who questioned his manhood saw her knife up close… until Hengest talked her back. But not today. Their future depended on this man’s goodwill.
Wortomar’s gaze shifted to her. “And Horsa means ‘horse’—stallion or mare, either way.” He studied her without apology. “I suppose you might be the latter.”
“More man than you, I’d wager,” her mouth blurted.
One of Wortomar’s eyebrows lifted.
“Britannia’s ruler, Vortigern, sent out the call for mercenaries. How many men do you bring?” He addressed Hengest, but his eyes flicked to Horsa. “And how many dependents?”
She rolled her eyes. This is how it always went at first. Her mouth remained shut, following orders for once. She hooked thumbs into her belt to fetter her hands as well.
Hengest answered. “We’ve brought three keels and ninety shipmen.”
“I have no use for a handful of rovers.” Wortomar braced as if to rise. “I make agreements with tribal chiefs, not individual captains.”
“We have sixteen more keels,” Horsa added quickly, “and five hundred warriors ready to join us if terms can be arranged.” ‘Ready’ was a small lie, but Redwyn and Ossa would be sorting those details back in Jutland. Neither she nor Hengest had married sluggards.
Wortomar settled back again with a sigh.
A floorboard creaked as Hengest shifted his weight. It was yellow wood, a fresh replacement. “How do these arrangements work? With… tribal chiefs, I mean.”
“Standard foederati terms,” he said as if reciting a well-known snatch of verse, but without enthusiasm. “Settlement rights in exchange for military service: sea patrols along the southern and eastern coasts, summer deployments north to defend the Wall against Pict raiders.” Here his eyes jumped to the tattoos spiraling along Horsa’s forearms. “In exchange, plots on Thanet up the coast and monthly supplies—grain, ale, iron, hides. The Empire has used these agreements for generations.”
“Would I have to swear an oath?”
Wortomar studied Hengest. Horsa tried to catch her brother’s eye: careful how you react.
“No oaths. Not to me. Not to my fa... to our ruler. You would serve Britannia, for payment.” He flashed a polite smile. “I know. Not at all what you are used to.”
Hengest was a grinning fool. He was done with oath-giving, and such an arrangement would serve him nicely. Yet he couldn’t see they never had a chance. This Wortomar didn’t trust foreigners, and three keels wouldn’t sway him. Might as well save their poor horses, well-bred and well-fed, but suffering nonetheless, and she could guess why.
“Where do you graze your stock?”
“On the downs.” He frowned.
“There’s your problem. Chalky soil leaches life from the grass. Makes coats dull, hooves brittle. I’d wager those animals have poor stamina despite plenty of feed.”
“And you’d suggest what, exactly?”
“Try dried nettles—you’ll find a patch behind your midden heap taller than me. They’ve gone coarse now, but your cook would have gathered some for tea and poultices. Crumble a handful into a horse’s feed each morning. You’ll see the difference within a week.”
He turned to Hengest. “Does she seriously expect me to risk my animals on weeds?”
“Horsa’s hoof-wise, not me. I follow her advice with my own mare, and it works out well enough.”
Wortomar returned his gaze to her, measuring.
“I will pass your wisdom on to my marshal of horse.” He pushed up from his chair. “Now, I have indulged this long enough. Let me think on your offer while I walk you to your ships.”
#
Horsa’s heart sank as they left the office and descended the balcony stairs. Think on it. Lord-language for ‘no.’ Now they’d sail back to Jutland with nothing to show for their trouble. She glared at the idle men they passed. Some clustered at games, dice clattering against the cobbles. Others dozed in the shade, their ale-stink wafting. Every cheer, every laugh grated on her. Even Wortomar was frowning. She stewed as they recovered their seaxes and war-gear from the guards at the east gate: her spear, Hengest’s ax and sword.
Just thirty strides to the stone quay, as pleasant as a pyre march. Her dragging heels dislodged pebbles from the hard-packed gravel, white and glaring in the afternoon sun. The same green slopes rolled down to turquoise waters. The same safe harbor embraced their three ships, lashed to one of the jetties. But the tingling of anticipation, the fresh scent of opportunity—both were fading fast. replaced by mocking gulls and salt-rot. The Sea-stallion, Wave-tamer, and Kraken had carried them to Britannia. Now those ships would haul bitter crews back to Jutland.
“Your sailing ship.” Hengest pointed at a sleek craft with a tall mast, lashed to its own dock. It was longer and wider than their ships, sitting higher in the water. “Shouldn’t it be on patrol, not sitting idle?”
“The Cunolucc is a fine vessel. Fast. But without slave-rowers or marines, she is little more than intricate driftwood.”
“Why not use your Saxon mercenaries?”
“And mix barbarians with civilized sailors? Sounds like oil and vinegar.”
“Seemed like an opportunity to try something unexpected, is all.” Hengest trailed off.
They crossed the wide stone quay and stepped out onto the jetty. The blocks were waist-high, fitted so close she couldn’t have knifed a blade into the joint. Barnacles crusted the thick wooden pilings. Whoever built this had expected it to last until Regnracu, the final reckoning of the gods. With the tide ebbed, their ships had dropped a stride lower. Ninety expectant faces turned their way from the rowing benches.
Wortomar stopped at the quay’s edge.
A score of Róm-wealh warriors armed with bows had followed quietly out the gate and along the verge. They now hung back, shaded by the fort’s wall. Not an escort. One archer with a sharp nose gave her a crooked grin and half a shrug. Wortomar had already decided. He’d decided before they left the office.
A lifetime of constant motion—running, riding, rowing, fighting—and she had never once waited for the axe to fall. “You claim you have no use for our three crews.” Wortomar tried to speak but Horsa spoke over him. “Yet I saw your sad excuse for warriors. The fact you won’t put them on one of your ships? That says much about loyalty and trust under your command.”
“You presume much for someone newly arrived.”
“I presume you’re frustrated. Patrols happen less often than planned. Raiders make landfall and escape before you can intercept them. Each week brings fresh complaints.” She paused. “Am I wrong?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You’re not entirely wrong.”
“You’re not keen on foreigners. Just a loyal thegn serving your king. I respect that.” She glanced at her brother. “Hengest here is cut from the same thick hide—so loyal to his sea-lord it almost cost him everything. You could use more like us.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Give us a trial. Our three crews will out-row and out-fight your current crop of mercenaries. We’ll follow orders, and we won’t need permission to wipe our arses.” She spread her hands. “If we fail, send us away. What do you risk?”
Wortomar studied them both, his expression unreadable.
“As you say.” He addressed Hengest. “I shall test you over summer. If you prove yourselves, your crews can settle on Thanet. Only these three for now—we’ll discuss the rest of your people later. But if you fail, you leave these shores before winter. How do you answer?”
They exchanged a quick glance. No words needed, not even a hand signal. They’d discussed this endlessly during the planning. This was what they’d come for, what they wanted for themselves and their families: a new homeland.
“We agree,” they said in unison.
“See that you do not confirm my reservations about your kind.”
