The Scathing

by C. R. May

  ‘They were a gift from my neighbours, lord.’

  Icel’s eyes opened in surprise. ‘The Wulfings send you war horses? Have they a death wish?’

  Eofer and Hemming shared a chuckle. ‘It’s a long story, a debt handsomely repaid. I will explain later, lord. I thought that you could find a use for them so I brought them along.’

  Icel whistled softly as he ran an appreciative hand down the flank of the nearest horse. ‘This is just what we need, Eofer,’ he replied. ‘You have my thanks.’ He turned back with a smile. ‘I daresay that your lads could do with a drink or three to celebrate the end of the journey?’ He indicated an oak framed building with a flick of his head. Like the majority of the buildings which Eofer could see, the squat building was well past its prime. Nestling against the foot of the city walls, the peeling plaster and moss covered thatch might have looked uninviting, but the sounds which drifted over from within caused a smile of recognition to play across his features.

  ‘They have what the Romans called a taverna to greet weary travellers. Leave the rest of the troop there and I will show you two the English city of Leircestre.’ The tail end of the column was just entering the archway as Hemming turned to spread the good news among his companions. Eofer threw Icel a look as the pair walked away from the harsh clatter of iron rimmed wheels on stone. ‘That’s the second time that you have called the town Leircestre. I thought that this place was called Ratae?’ Icel shook his head. ‘Not any more. This is English land and it deserves an English name. The river is called the Leir and this was a Roman army town, so it’s a cestre to us. Everywhere I go I am going to sweep away the old and replace it with the new.’ He gave Eofer a nudge as Hemming rejoined them. ‘Here, like this.’

  A pedlar was hawking his wares along the main thoroughfare which led into the centre of the settlement, and Icel called across to gain his attention. The man looked horrified to have been singled out by so exalted a person as the son of the king, but Icel smiled to ease his worries as they ambled across. ‘How goes your day?’ The man had the startled look of a thief caught in the act, but he whipped off his leather cap as he attempted to answer the unexpected question. Eofer suppressed a smile at the sight of the man’s discomfort. Not everyone knew of the ætheling’s good nature, and he could only begin to imagine the thoughts which were swirling around the pedlar’s mind. The colour had drained from the unfortunate man’s cheeks, but he answered his lord as well as he could manage. ‘The day goes well, lord. I have made enough now to travel home on the morrow.’

  Icel raised a brow. ‘And where is this place that you call home?’

  ‘On the far side of the River Trenta, lord.’

  Icel beamed. ‘You live on the far bank?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Then you are the type of man I need in my new kingdom, a man unafraid to push my borders outwards and settle new lands. And does this place have a name?’

  ‘I don’t know what the Romans called it, lord,’ the man admitted with a shrug, ‘but the local British call it Tigguocobauc.’

  Icel pulled a face. ‘Tigg what?’

  ‘Tigguocobauc, lord. It means the place of caves.’

  ‘You speak Welsh then?’

  ‘Have to lord,’ the man admitted as Icel’s natural charm lowered his defences and he risked a wry smile. ‘I would have to speak to myself most days if I didn’t. If a man wants to trade, he has to be able to talk to all sorts. There’s not many Engles to be found on the far bank of the Trenta.’

  Icel nodded. ‘We shall be seeing what we can do to change that situation very soon,’ he smiled. ‘At least you will have neighbours with pronounceable names. And what do folk call you, friend?’

  ‘Snota, lord.’

  Eofer and Hemming had a good idea of what Icel had in mind, and the pair exchanged a look of amusement as they watched the ætheling’s shoulders sag. Icel cleared his throat as he attempted to hide his disappointment.

  ‘Your name is Snota?’

  ‘Yes, lord, Snota, that’s me. Everyone around Tigguocobauc knows old Snota. I come from a long line of Snota’s. There’s always been a Snota in my family, always will be.’

  Icel could sense the smiles forming on Eofer and Hemming as Snota rambled on about his lineage, and he dared not look their way as he forged ahead with his plan.

  ‘Snota,’ he said as the man looked at his lord expectantly. ‘I am going to send spearmen back with you tomorrow. When you reach this Tigg...place, I want you to tell the inhabitants that they are the subjects of the Anglian ætheling, Icel, and that they now live in Snotingaham, Snota’s home.’

  Snota gaped in shock before gabbling his thanks, but Icel held up a hand to stop him. ‘Snota, you are just the type of man I need in my new kingdom, think nothing of it. Travel safely and spread the word to everyman you meet that these are English lands now.’

  Snota’s face shone with pride as Icel moved away, Eofer and Thrush Hemming following on, stifling their own laughter as they passed the slack jawed pedlar. As the trio moved towards the centre of town the ætheling shook his head in wonder. ‘Of all the men to pick. Still,’ he consoled himself, ‘I daresay that the thegn will change it to something a bit less snotty as soon as I appoint one.’ He shot the pair a wicked smile. ‘I can’t imagine that anyone in their right mind would want to live in a place called Snotingaham.’

  A short walk brought them to the central area of the newly renamed English town of Leircestre, and Icel paused as the central marketplace opened up before them. ‘This used to be what the Romans called the forum, but as you can see it’s looking a bit ramshackle. Most of the civic buildings were destroyed by fire years ago; it’s been cleared and used as a marketplace ever since. Eofer looked at the open space. Cattle were corralled at the far corner in a makeshift pen, sloshing about ankle deep in dung. The animals lowed mournfully as night came on, and several were eating from wide feed bins attached to a massive wall of dun coloured stones set within decorative brickwork. Tall arches built within the masonry hinted at a past magnificence. Folk were packing away their wares, and the first of the night watchmen were firing up their braziers in readiness for the long hours of darkness to come.

  Icel motioned ahead as the flag of Anglia was lowered on its staff. ‘The roads of the town cross here and lead to the four gates, one in the centre of each wall. The road which carried you here goes ahead to the river and the crossing place there. The other road which crosses the marketplace from north-east to south-west is the Fosse Way which runs from the country of the Lindisware down to the southern coast at a place called Isca.’

  Eofer glanced across at the mention of the northern people. ‘Have the Lindisware replied to King Eomær’s demand for tribute yet?’

  Icel pulled a pained smile. ‘Unfortunately, yes. They have offered something in return for their fealty. Someone called Creoda is styling himself king up there.’ He shrugged as if it was of little consequence. ‘He can be a king if he wants, as long as he recognises the overlordship of the line of Offa and pays his dues.’ He blew out as he worried at his beard. ‘They want to bind our agreement with a marriage.’

  Eofer let out a gasp of delight as he realised the price of the alliance. ‘Icel Eomæring, great-grandson of Offa the Great, the hammer of the Myrgings. You are being traded for a herd of horses!’

  Icel winced. ‘Thank you for your concern, but yes, a cruel man could describe my immediate future thus.’ He raised an eyebrow and Eofer laughed at the mischief he saw there. ‘Still,’ the ætheling added hopefully as he rediscovered his natural sense of optimism and wit. ‘She could be a beauty!’

  Eofer grinned. ‘Or a bloater!’

  They shared a laugh, and the ætheling shook his head. ‘Thanks again for your kind words of support. I feel much better about the whole thing now.’

  The pair walked on, prince and thegn at ease in each other’s company. Icel shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s of little consequence. An ætheling is raised to understand that
wives are for alliance building and producing heirs, there are always other women available for fun.’

  Eofer pulled a face as he realised with a start that Icel’s explanation had perfectly described the way that his own wife’s mind must now be working. He pushed down the feeling and changed the subject as he sought to keep the conversation lighthearted.

  ‘So, you are pushing across the Trenta then?’

  Icel shook his head. ‘It’s a bit more delicate than that, Eofer. This is not an unsettled island you know, other folk already claim those lands as their own.’ He snorted and gave his thegn a look of amusement. ‘At least they try to when you are not around! There have been folk drifting in from the west for a week or so claiming that an army from Powys has crossed the great belt of woodland called Canoc. I had best ensure that my flank is secure first.’

  ‘So you want me to lead the men to the far bank?’

  Icel gave a snort at the eorle’s keenness. ‘No, not yet,’ he laughed. ‘You are getting ahead of us king’s bane, we need to consolidate our hold on the south bank before we move northwards. But,’ he added as he walked, ‘there is truth in your words. Those lands will fall to us in time.’ He plucked at Eofer’s sleeve as the accompanying spearmen cleared a path through the throng. ‘There is someone who I would like you to meet, a Briton of high birth; tonight when we are at our cups. But first,’ he said with an enigmatic smile, ‘let me show you why I have led you this way. It is a thing which I stumbled across quite by accident, something which I know you have been looking for these past few months, without even realising that you were.’

  4

  Osbeorn puckered his mouth, kneading his belly as he pointed to the empty plate. Icel had caught the look, and he laughed along with his thegn as he tossed a bone to a waiting hound. Leaning forward he spoke across Eofer to the Briton at his side. ‘That’s not necessarily a good indication of the quality of food on offer, there’s very little that Eofer’s duguth will not eat and enjoy. But,’ he said, as he struggled to make his voice heard over the hubbub in the hall, ‘in this instance he has my support. That was some of the finest lamb which I have ever had the pleasure to eat.’

  Ceretic ap Cynfawr, legate to Sawyl Penuchel, king of The Peaks, dipped his head in recognition of the compliment. ‘It is very kind of you to say so ætheling,’ he replied. ‘But any thanks should be directed towards the cook. My kingdom produces the finest lamb in Britain, but it still takes a man with Urien’s skill with herbs and sauces to produce a dish fit for the son of King Eomær.’

  The Engles shared a look of amusement at the go-between’s flowery praise as Icel rose and clapped Eofer on the shoulder. ‘Ceretic you do your office well, you shall have your alliance. For now enjoy the entertainments of my hall as a small repayment for the magnificence of this meal while I walk with my thegn.’

  The Briton beamed at the news that his mission to the barbarian prince had been successful. His king would be pleased, despite the disquiet felt among many of his ministers that English warriors could soon be moving among them. Where spearmen went settlers were never far behind, but the pressure bearing down on the little kingdom from its neighbours was becoming intolerable and the alliance was the only way to keep even a degree of independence before their naked ambition. The fortress of Cair Luit Coyt had fallen after a short siege, and the army of Powys were sweeping all before them as they advanced along the valley of the River Trenta. With the British kingdom of Elmet raiding her border to the north the hilly kingdom was desperate for allies: even pagan barbarians.

  Although he had hidden the fact during the negotiations, Icel knew that the Engles themselves were little better placed to see out the onslaught. Survivors from the westernmost settlements had carried tales of slaughter and rapine to Leircestre, a life of slavery the best that any man, woman or child of English race could hope for once the army of Powys reached them. The stark truth was that the English settlers around the Trenta faced annihilation. If Icel could not find help, his dream of carving a kingdom from the middle lands would remain just that, a dream.

  The pair hesitated at the door, chuckling to themselves as they watched the warriors torment a long-suffering entertainer. As jugglers went this one was not too bad, but the ale had worked its magic and the drinkers had their own entertainments in mind. As Eofer and Icel watched, a lamb bone spun through the air to neatly take out a spinning sword blade and, his concentration shot, the warriors roared with laughter as a shower of blades rained down about the juggler’s head.

  As the bone thrower rose to receive the acclamation of the hall, Icel shook his head sadly. ‘Jugglers: throwing things up in the air and catching them. What possesses a man to spend his life doing such a thing?’

  They ducked outside, and the ætheling held up a hand to let the spearmen guarding the doorway know that they wished to be alone. As Icel spoke with the men, Eofer raised his chin and ran his eyes across the night sky. The vault was clear, the air still as the ætheling ambled across, and Eofer marvelled for the thousandth time at the whiteness of the moon. ‘It’s funny to think,’ he said as Icel came up. ‘That the same moonlight bathes the old country, even as we walk here.’

  Icel pursed his lips. ‘Shining on the bones of our horses,’ he replied with a sigh before lowering his eyes. ‘And other bones, noble bones, the remains of the best of us.’

  Eofer gave a slight nod in recognition of the compliment his family was being paid. It had been over a year now since he had left his father at the head of the ghost army, arrayed across the hillside outside the remains of Sleyswic. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘There will be Danes there now,’ he said, the pain still evident in his tone. ‘Danes living in Engeln.’

  As Eofer’s voice trailed away, Icel laid a hand upon his shoulder. ‘It was a noble end, a death fit for a foltoga of the Engles. For myself I will say to you now that I would live my life in happiness, if I but knew that such an end awaited me. But the old country is in the past, what’s done is done. There is no going back for us now.’ He looked at Eofer and set his expression as he glanced back across his shoulder. Satisfied that the guards were out of earshot he continued. ‘That’s part of why I wanted us to speak alone. I realise that we could not have carried our horses and people across the German Sea in our hulls, but if our new neighbours realise just how desperate for mounts we really are, we may very well find that we are back in Anglia defending the fleama dyke. You are one of my most trusted men, Eofer, and I want to share with you my plans for the coming campaigning season.’

  Eofer widened his eyes in surprise. ‘So, I am not going to The Peaks then?’ Icel shook his head. ‘Not yet, not this year anyway. I will send what few spearmen I can spare up there of course, just enough to keep the kingdom from falling, but I think that you will agree we have more pressing matters here in the south.’

  The thegn’s expression darkened. ‘Cynlas Goch and the men of Powys? I have only heard snippets of information about what is happening in the west since I arrived here, and none of it seemed particularly good. How bad is it really?’

  ‘Now that we have a few more horses we may be able to slow their progress on this side of the Trenta,’ Icel replied. ‘Hopefully long enough for us to organise a counterattack later in the summer. Otherwise...’ He shrugged as he let the thegn draw his own conclusion.

  Eofer nodded thoughtfully as the size of the fight ahead became obvious for the first time. ‘How far away are they?’

  Icel nodded to the west. ‘The nearest are only twenty miles or so from the place where we are standing, beyond that wood. There is another valley on the other side which has been settled by Engles who call themselves the Tamsætan, the Tame Settlers, after the name of the river there. Whether they are already on their way to the west in chains or lie in their graves is anybody’s guess.’

  Eofer looked sidelong, keen to gauge the ætheling’s reaction to his following statement. ‘Ceretic seemed to think that this king of Powys fancies himself as the next Arthu
r, the Bear Man who unites the British kingdoms against us.’

  Icel snorted. ‘I doubt that will be the case, we are much stronger here now. They may yet frustrate our plans in the middle lands, but they will never recover Anglia itself. Fortunately for us it takes an exceptional leader to overcome the traditional rivalries and hatreds among the British kingdoms, not every generation supplies such a man.’ He smiled triumphantly. ‘Three Arthurs is enough for one island. Even the Saxons down south attempted to claim overlordship of Britain but it will never last longer than the warlord who creates it.’

  ‘Aelle, you mean?’

  Icel shrugged. ‘He termed himself Bretwalda, wide ruler, but nobody north of the River Tamesas took much notice. It will be the same with this Cynlas Goch, the British don’t take too kindly to being given orders by folk far away, especially when they demand tribute be sent abroad year after year.’

  A wave of noise washed over the pair as a door opened, and a flash of honey coloured light gilded the ground at their feet. Icel plucked at his thegn’s sleeve, guiding him to one side as they looked away to the west. The bone white line of the old Roman Road shone dully in the moonlight as it crossed the valley side and was swallowed by the darkness of the Wolds. Eofer was the first to break the silence.

  ‘And that street leads there?’

  Icel nodded. ‘Indirectly: that’s why I need to leave you and your men here while I head north.’

  ‘Then you are leading us up the Trenta Valley to confront them when you return?’

  ‘If I manage to get enough horses,’ the ætheling replied with a frown. ‘I am going to visit the Lindisware to see my lovely bride. Apparently the wolds there are ideal for horse breeding. If I can get more mounts than already promised to me, either as part of a dowry or tribute, I will. Thankfully you brought a few with you,’ he joked, ‘or I would be walking.’ The ætheling turned to face the eorle, and Eofer was troubled to see concern come into his lord’s features as he spoke again. ‘If this king of Powys does attack us here at Leircestre before we are ready Eofer the town will fall, and the luckiest among the English settlers hereabouts will find themselves on the way to the slave market in Frankland. That’s why I sent for you, I need a man that I can trust with such a responsibility.’