The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Safely out of earshot now, Osbeorn nodded in greeting as the newcomer dipped his head and Eofer indicated that the man join them at the table. ‘This is Ioan, lord,’ Osbeorn began. ‘The man that I told Hemming about.’

  If Eofer had been disappointed by the man’s flamboyant entrance, he was pleased and thankful to see that the jovial look of moments earlier had been replaced by a more business-like mask as the Briton put away his public persona and got ready to talk. As Osbeorn slid a cup of ale across, Eofer came straight to the point. Only the gods knew what type of men were in the room, but he would be surprised if the army of Powys had not seeded the town with informants.

  ‘Ozzy tells us that you can lead us to horses. Tell me where and how.’

  Ioan sipped his drink and regarded them over the rim of the cup. Clearing his throat he replied with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Sure, I can lead you to as fine a store of warhorses it has ever been my pleasure to see.’ He took another sip of his ale, replacing the cup on the table with the confident air of a gambler who knew that he held the winning hand. ‘But it will be dangerous,’ he continued as he traced a pattern in the ale slops with a finger. ‘Very dangerous. I value my life and that of my men, it would have to be worth my while.’

  Eofer fought down a scowl. Haggling never came easy to him, but he needed the Welshman’s help and the man knew it. ‘I am not here to play games, Ioan. I want as many horses as I can get and I want them now.’ He fixed the Briton with a stare. ‘Tell me everything I need to know and you will receive a fair price for your information. Agree to lead us and I will treble that price.’

  Ioan’s gaze flicked from face to face as he pondered his answer. A quick look across his shoulder at the men of Eofer’s hearth troop sat at the tables there finally convinced the Briton that these were as tough a group of men that he had ever had dealings with. ‘I will tell you what I know using your English words for places where they exist to save any confusion. But I warn you now, I doubt that you will carry off more than a few of these horses. It would take an army to breach the walls which shelter them, and if you don’t mind me saying lord I just watched a large part of your army head off over the ridge from Tewdwr’s upper floor.’

  Eofer had noticed Hemming struggling to contain his rising anger as the rustler negotiated, and he sympathised as his weorthman’s patience finally snapped. ‘Actually, he does mind you saying,’ he growled, ‘and so do I.’ He flicked a look at Eofer and back again. ‘This is the man who burned the king of Daneland’s hall and cleaved the king of Swedeland’s head in the clash of shields. Tell him what he needs to know and let him decide.’

  Eofer held out a hand to calm his duguth as he pinned the Welshman with a look. ‘Unless you describe this place to me I will not have the information which I need to make an informed decision. Which also means that you miss out, not only on a sackful of silver, but a tale which will keep you in ale for the rest of your days. And knowing my plans,’ he added with a warning scowl, ‘you would be very lucky if I only locked you up somewhere until the ætheling returned. It might just be easier to gut you now and have done with it.’

  Ioan’s features creased into a disarming smile. ‘There will be no need for that lord, I think that we can do business. There is an old Roman fort a hard days ride from here known as Cair Luit Coyt, Fort Grey Wood in English. It stands at the junction of two Roman roads, the ones which the Engles and Saxons call Watling Street and Ryknield Street. Watling Street passes through the fortress before entering the forest of Canoc on its way to Cair Guricon, the main fortress in Powys itself. It is here that the army of Cynlas Goch have left the majority of their horses while they harry the valley of the Trenta.’

  Eofer nodded. ‘I have heard of this place. How many horses are we talking about?’

  ‘I saw up to two hundred while I was there, but you will not take them all. They are corralled within the fort and the walls are high and stone built. But,’ Ioan added, as the Englishmen exchanged looks of excitement and wonder at the numbers involved, ‘the Powys’ are relying on the strength of the defences to protect their mounts. Only a token force has been left to actually guard the place and that gives us a chance to dive in quick and cut a few out from the herd. War horses need to be exercised daily, and that needs an open space. Luckily for them, and us, there is such a space between the Cair and a stream which runs down to join the Trenta. I watched them while I was there,’ he added wolfishly, ‘and there were never more than half a dozen men guarding them. A fast moving force of men such as your own would have no trouble driving a batch off.’

  Ioan lowered his voice and levelled his speech to add weight to his next statement. ‘Cynlas Goch is not here on a raid lord, he intends to stay.’ He added a scowl of his own. ‘You may think of we Britons as one people but we are many, just like the people that Hemming mentioned from your own past, the Danes and the Swedes. We may have once existed under the heel of Rome, but those days ended long ago. You should not expect the men of Powys to harbour anymore feelings of brotherliness with those of say, Dyfed, than you would towards any other Germans. Believe me,’ he said, ‘there is no love lost between this tyrant and his neighbours. All of what you would call the Welsh kingdoms which border Powys have suffered from his armies. I and most of my men are from Gwent in the south and a couple are from Cair Gloui, but the thing which unites us all is our shared hatred of Powys. We know what it is to have Powys as a neighbour, bitter experience tells us that they have an insatiable appetite for gold and land. The majority of Cynlas Goch’s army is moving slowly forward on foot, accompanied by workmen and carts laden with building materials, refortifying the old strongpoints as they go. As I said, this is a war of conquest, lord, no lightning raid. Believe me when I say that they mean to stay.’

  A rectangle of light cut the floor as the door was pushed inwards, and a babble of excited voices drew the thegn’s attention away from their conversation as another group of thirsty drovers ducked into the taverna. He looked around the room once again. Ioan was a known rustler and the place was filling up fast as the morning advanced and men drifted in. Eofer realised that if this dream was to become reality, he would have to move as quickly as possible. Cynlas Goch’s invasion had been well prepared and executed with care and precision. Men came and went from Leircestre every day, it was unthinkable that the Welsh prince would come so close without sending spies to warn him of the time when the English must respond to the threat he posed to their new lands. If those men reported that Icel had already led his own hearth troop away it could even provoke an attack on the town itself. He came to a decision and turned his gaze back on the Welshman. ‘We go now. Each man carries his own food and there will be no remounts.’ He looked across the table. ‘Thrush, have a word with our friend Tewdwr and have him prepare a small sack of food and drink for each man.’ Hemming nodded and left the table immediately. From the corner of his eye, Eofer noticed that his hearth men at the nearby tables had noticed the movement and were already draining their cups as they prepared to leave the place. He turned back to Ioan. ‘I want to be there by sundown tonight. Leave now, gather your men and meet me at the western gate as quickly as you can. How long do you think that you will need?’

  Ioan raised his chin, peering across the room at the raucous group of men who had earlier been banging the table in time with his actions in the upper room. A quick jerk of his head and the men were on their feet and halfway to the door. Eofer looked at the group and back to the Briton in surprise as Ioan flashed a grin. ‘We are ready, lord. How long will your boys need?’

  6

  The men stood deep within the shadows of the greenwood as a westering sun drew a crimson line on the horizon. Shielding his eyes against the glare, Eofer chewed his lip as he studied the defences. ‘There she is, lord,’ Ioan said at his side. ‘We made it, just in time.’ Eofer nodded as his mind raced to form a plan of attack before the rapidly fading light left them altogether.

  Cair Luit Coyt looked every bit as imp
osing as Ioan had said. The main gate straddled Watling Street itself, twin towers of creamy coloured stone rising to double the height of the main curtain wall with a crenellated walkway linking the two. Eofer saw to his disappointment that each corner of the fort had been protected by circular towers, the massive stone strongpoints projecting outward from the walls which ran into them. He indicated the one to the south with a jerk of his chin. ‘You said that there are not many men here. Do you expect all of the towers to be manned?’

  Ioan pulled a face. ‘It’s been a week since we were here, lord. As I said there were not many men here then, but I can’t guarantee that others have not arrived. I will say though,’ he volunteered as he recognised Eofer’s concern, ‘that unless they came during the last two or three days, I would have heard. There’s not much that travels the roads within fifty miles of Tewdwr’s ale house that’s not the talk of the place within that time.’

  Eofer took a final look back as the sun flared a copper red against the base of the clouds beyond. Low now, the last of the light played upon the brows of the ditches which encircled the walls of the fort. Three in number, Eofer clicked his tongue in frustration as the light revealed that the obstacles had been well maintained. Wide and steep sided, they would preclude any approach by horsemen to the fortress other than by way of the roadway itself. His knowledge of other Roman fortifications, gleaned from visits both here in Britain and in the lands of the Franks and Frisians, told him that a fort of this size would have four gates, each one protected by identical gatehouses midway along the outside walls; he had seen enough Roman forts now to know that they had been built to an identical pattern all over the empire. Watling Street would cross a smaller road which bisected the camp from north-east to south-west from these other gatehouses, quartering the area within the walls. If the corner towers did contain additional guards they could sweep the approaches and defensive ditches with enfilading shot; Cair Luit Coyt would be pretty much impregnable to his meagre force.

  He had hoped to trick his way into the fort. The stables were always located near to the main gate, but he saw now that Ioan had been right to doubt his plan. If the guards at the gate saw through his ruse and failed to open them, it was difficult to see just how they could break into the fortress. The eorle’s hand moved down to touch the pommel of Gleaming as he called on the gods to send him a sign that he was still doing their bidding, but as his eyes scanned the gathering gloom his heart sank at a world scoured of other living things. Suddenly the merest flicker of light caught his eye, and his head snapped around. ‘What’s that? There at the base of the wall?’

  Ioan’s gaze followed the Englishman’s outstretched arm. A blood red eye had appeared among the heavy shadows; as they watched it blinked and slowly faded as the sun dipped beneath the earth’s rim. Ioan threw him a sympathetic look. ‘That’s a culvert, lord,‘ he answered. ‘It carries the shit and muck from the stables to the brook.’

  Eofer’s eyes widened and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. Woden, the one-eyed father of the gods seemed to have shown him the way after all.

  Ioan recognised the look for what it was and moved to crush the Englishman’s hopes before they took root. ‘You will never get in that way,’ he said sadly, ‘it’s been tried before. Oh, you will get past the first grate no problem,’ he spat. ‘But then you will find that you are trapped against the inner bars with dogs and spearmen gathering for the kill. It’s a trap, made to look easy so that they can lure anyone dumb enough to fall for it into a killing ground.’

  Eofer raised a brow and the Welshman quickly backtracked. ‘Not saying that you would have fallen for it lord,’ he gabbled apologetically. ‘Not once you got a proper look.’

  Eofer rubbed his face wearily, suddenly overcome by the rigours and worries of the day. Maybe he was losing his touch? Not so long ago he would given a rousing speech and stormed the walls. Now he was considering the consequences of failure, worrying about the affect a defeat here would have on the wider war. Ioan looked at him in surprise as a thought came to Eofer, and he snorted in amusement: maybe Astrid was right after all. Like a snake ship, a big fifty oar Snaca, he had cleaved the sea, battered it to froth and foam in his wake; but the waters ahead were smooth and calm and would remain so if he hauled on the steering oar of his life and set course on a different heading. Perhaps his best fighting years were behind him? Maybe he should become an ealdorman? As hard as he racked his mind he just could not understand why he had become so half-hearted about the attack.

  Then, as the light finally left the western sky and the awkwardness of the moment began to stretch gossamer thin, a smile came to his face as he realised that he knew.

  ‘So, what do you think, Thrush?’

  Hemming placed his hands on his hips and looked out across the surrounding countryside. The moon was full and bright, painting the lands below them with a ghostly sheen. The river which the villagers had called the Anker hugged the base of the slope before clearing away to the north to merge with the silver ribbon which marked the course of the River Tame. Not so many miles further downstream the waters would join the River Trenta and continue its long journey northwards to the sea. Finally he nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect. But where would you find a madman with the balls to cling on here until the ætheling can flush the Britons from the valley?’

  Eofer placed a hand on his weorthman’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘I was thinking that I had already found one,’ he said. ‘Right here.’

  Hemming laughed in reply, but his look changed to one of incredulity as he realised that he was laughing alone. ‘You mean it?’

  Eofer nodded. ‘Of course.’ As Hemming struggled to come to terms with the importance of his lord’s words, Eofer continued. ‘King Eomær was impressed by the way you handled the boys in Scania after I was taken, he made a point of telling me so at the symbel in Theodford before we set old king Offa in his barrow. Icel mentioned you too. He is looking for experienced fighters to hold down the lands which we will conquer here in the valley of the Trenta and elsewhere. What do you think? Do you want to be a warlord?’

  A fox barked in the near distance, drawing the men’s gaze away. When Eofer looked back he could see that Hemming was already studying the land thereabouts with a practiced eye. It was a good sign, and the eorle spoke again to encourage the outcome he wanted. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I have plenty of men to look after me now. Horsa is a good man and Finn could turn out to be one of the best. After all,’ he said with a smile. ‘He had a good example to follow.’

  Hemming turned back, the moon highlighting the excitement writ large on his features. Eofer felt his own kick of excitement as he saw that his man had already reached his decision. ‘He could be one of the best, I agree,’ Hemming said as he flashed his lord a grin, ‘but I am the best. A warlord in his glory.’

  ‘Come on then,’ Eofer replied with a snort. ‘Let’s put everyone to work. Even glorious warlords need a hall and a fence.’

  Eofer’s hand moved down to the scabbard of his sword. As he ran the pad of his forefinger around the gold and garnet raven there, he was aware that other hands to either side were moving up to finger gods-luck charms of their own. The silver hammer of Thunor would be most common he knew. Crusher, the great hammer of the thunder god hung at most English throats, but there would be the odd figure of Ing among them to add to the Iesus crosses of Ioan’s boys. He had made a gift of his own hammer pendant of course, to the Long Beard warrior Wulf shield breaker back in the old country, the day before they had boarded the Skua and left for good. His mind wondered for a heartbeat whether they were still together before a whoop cut the air and his mind snapped back to the matter at hand.

  They had stood immobile, deep within the dappled shade for what had seemed like a lifetime before there had been any sign of movement from the great Cair to the south. Watching, biding their time as the shadow of the tree line crept slowly towards them as the morn
ing advanced. This day was to be a balancing act, and the scales would be weighted with men’s lives.

  He had left Hemming and the fifty warriors who had joined his war band before leaving Leircestre at the hill, helping the villagers put the finishing touches to the defences at the hall there. Hemming had named the new fortress Tamtun after the stream which curled past its base. The small English settlement of Tamworthy had grown up on the floodplain opposite, its inhabitants so far overlooked by the Powys as they scoured the valley of the Trenta to the north. But they knew that it was only gods-luck, the vagaries of wyrd which had saved them so far from suffering the devastation which had visited so many others of their race. Promised protection within the new fort by Hemming in time of danger they were digging in furiously, keen to make the hill fort as strong as possible before their fiend became aware of this wildcat force which had been thrown into their midst.

  Eofer turned to Ioan at his side as the Powys’ stable hands drove the geldings past the hiding place in a thunder of hoofbeats. ‘Whereabouts do they turn?’

  The Welshman indicated a large willow at the head of the meadow, the branches sweeping down to brush the surface of the brook like a young lad’s floppy fringe. Eofer nodded with satisfaction, the location was perfect for their plan. Far enough away from the walls of the Cair to put them out of range, even in the unlikely event that the defenders had bowmen stationed on the walls or towers on this peaceful, sunny morning, but also beyond help by any but horsemen, and horsemen already set in their saddles at that. Suddenly a realisation came to him, and he turned to Ioan with a gasp of surprise. ‘You had this plan in mind all along. You had learnt that the Powys’ had gathered their horses there and travelled to the Cair to spy out their defences.’ The corners of Ioan’s mouth curled into a sheepish smile and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am always on the lookout for any opportunities which might present themselves, lord.’ His smile widened into a grin as he saw the laughter dancing in Eofer’s eyes at his cheekiness. ‘I like nice things lord: and whores. Neither come cheap.’ Eofer snorted at the man’s honesty. ‘You saw the strength of the defences and travelled to Leircestre to see if you could enlist some added muscle and had the luck to run into Ozzy. So now we do the fighting and you get a guaranteed pay day.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, it so happens that I think that it’s a price worth paying. Maybe our gods have teamed up for the day? Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out.’