The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Eofer looked to his left and gave the sign. Leather creaked as the warriors hauled themselves into their saddles, took up spears and turned their heads his way. Eofer swept his gaze along the length of the water meadow a final time. Away to the left the Cair dozed under a sultry sun, the only signs of life a lone gate guardian and a glint of steel as a spearman walked the ramparts. Above it all the red dragon banner of Powys curled lazily in a breath of wind. Satisfied that all was quiet there Eofer put back his heels and eased his horse forward with a click of his tongue.

  The Powys’ herd had cleared the final loop of the brook, they were within a hundred yards of the old willow as he exited the tree cover and walked his mount to the mid point of the field. Free of the shade, Eofer felt the warmth of the sun on his back for the first time that day as he waited for the others to form up, fanning out into a skirmish line to either side as they looked for the signal. A quick glance ahead confirmed that the stable hands, intent on heading off the herd as they approached the turning point, were still unaware of the threat which had appeared to their rear. Eofer exchanged a smile with Ioan at his side, the excitement which lit the Welshman’s face all the confirmation he needed that the plan was going well.

  Eofer raised his spear and let out a cry, throwing back his heels as he drove his mount forward. A heartbeat later the cry resounded around the field as it was taken up all along the line, and a new storm thundered across the meadow as the line of horsemen increased their speed to a gallop.

  Ahead, Eofer saw the moment when the first enemy rider became aware of the danger now rapidly closing from the south, and he laughed in triumph as the first faces turned their way and mouths gaped in shock and horror. To either side his men saw the consternation on Powys’ faces and redoubled their efforts to unnerve the men ahead, their cries now a full-throated roar rolling along the valley floor in an unstoppable tide.

  As he had expected the stable lads, faced by an onrushing wall of armoured killers abandoned their charges, turning the heads of their own mounts aside and scattering in all directions like a flock of panic stricken birds. The English gave full voice to their victory cry as the men of Powys fled and Eofer hauled at his reins, turning his own mount aside as the men of his war troop gathered around him. Eofer peered back down the field, his eyes fixed on the twin stone towers, the massive gatehouse of Cair Luit Coyt and the dark shadowed rectangle which marked the position of the gateway itself. The guard had disappeared, but to his joy there was no sign of any other movement there.

  Osbeorn came up alongside him and the duguth grinned. ‘The guard’s gone inside,’ he beamed, ‘you know what that means!’

  Eofer laughed and pulled the head of his horse back to the north. ‘He’s gone inside to raise the alarm.’ He clapped his man on the shoulder as the war party began to head back northwards. ‘We have caught them napping. Come on,’ he cried above the din, ‘let’s get these horses away.’

  Ioan and his right hand man were at the rear of the herd, waving their tawny cloaks above their heads and whooping for joy as they drove the horses onwards. The rest of the Welshman’s gang had moved forward, fanning out on either flank, the air bejewelled as they guided their prizes across the stream in an explosion of spray.

  Intent on driving off their charges neither one of Ioan’s men saw the attack until far too late, and Eofer opened his mouth to cry a warning as the pair, mounted warriors dressed for battle, seemed to appear from nowhere. Before Eofer could head them off steel flashed as the leading enemy rider brought his sword blade slashing down, and blood misted the air as Ioan’s man flew backwards from his saddle and tumbled to the ground. The dead man’s companion, faster or luckier than his friend threw himself aside, ducking away from the follow up strike as Eofer and his men put back their heels and raced to confront the attackers. Within moments Eofer’s horse had reached the brook, and he shifted the weight of the spear in his hand as he sought the point of balance, drew back his arm and prepared to throw. The instant that the horse rose up above the lip of the bank Eofer’s arm snapped forward, launching the dart towards the swordsman. Closer now the thegn blinked in surprise as he saw that the leading attacker was no more than a boy and, despite the fact that the lad had just taken the life of one of his companions he willed his spear to miss its target. Even in the heat of battle it would be an unworthy act, and he was thankful when the following rider urged his own mount forward to throw his shield into the path of the missile. An instant later the spear thudded into the lime-wood board, the force of the strike throwing the warrior’s arm back and opening his own body up to a following strike.

  Horses were scrambling up the bank now to either side of the eorle, and Eofer watched as a several spears converged on the enemy warrior as he twisted in desperation. The veteran began to recover, dragging his shield forward as the darts cleaved the air, but Eofer could see that it was too late and a heartbeat later the spearpoints thudded home.

  The boy had reacted to the attack, hauling around the head of his own mount to face the threat. Eofer was the closest to him, and he took in the details of his opponent as Gleaming rasped from its scabbard. Maybe six winters in age, the boy’s shoulder length flaxen hair indicated that was as a Saxon of high class, undoubtably the son of an important member of Cynlac Goch’s army. A cream coloured sark edged with a wide golden band was split at the waist by the broad belt of a warrior, the silver studded leatherwork flashing in the morning sun. Raising his gaze Eofer’s suspicion of his opponent’s nationhood was confirmed as he saw that a green cloak was pinned at the shoulder by a circular brooch in the Saxon style.

  Eofer was aware of his men crowding forward to finish off the first Saxon, and he saw the look of anguish which washed across the face of the youth replaced by a snarl as the boy gritted his teeth and urged his horse into the attack. His shield still strapped firmly to the saddle of his own mount, the Englishman sat tall as the Saxon approached, hoping that the boy’s lack of experience would be his downfall. Eofer held Gleaming out wide as the horses raced head on, and his heart leapt as he saw that his opponent was taking the bait. As the boy brought his sword sweeping around, arcing in towards Eofer’s unprotected midriff, the eorle calmed his breathing and concentrated on matching his own movements with those of his mount. As his opponent’s blade slashed in an inch above the ears of his own horse, Eofer’s arm shot vertically upwards. His judgement was perfect and within a heartbeat the steel strips of his vambrace had deflected the blow, the momentum flinging the Saxon’s sword arm wide. Eofer just had time to see his opponent’s look of triumph transform into one of horror as the horses sped past one another and Gleaming cut the air. Eofer felt a satisfying thud as the pommel of his sword connected with the shoulder of the lad, and he caught a momentary glimpse as he shot sideways through the air.

  Turning back he could see that older Saxon was no longer a threat, his body chopped to a bloody wreck as he had struggled to defend his charge against overwhelming numbers. The boy lay motionless on the riverside several yards away, and Eofer gave Horsa a look of concern as the duguth peered down from the back of his horse at the apparently lifeless form on the grass beneath him.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Osbeorn slid from his saddle, grasped a handful of hair and tugged the boy’s head back. ‘Not yet, lord,’ he replied with an obvious air of disappointment. Drawing his knife with a flourish he held the blade to the boy’s upturned throat, glancing back as he awaited the nod which would deprive the lad of his life.

  ‘No,’ Eofer said, ‘he could come in useful. Tie him to his saddle, he comes with us.’

  7

  ‘Here it is, lord,’ Ioan cried above the rhythmic clatter of horseshoes on stone. ‘This is the place.’ Up ahead twin pillars marked the crossing, the ancient stone bridge which carried the Roman Road northwards shimmering in the heat of the midday sun. ‘The bridge carries the road across the River Mease,’ he continued as the Englishman raised his chin to peer across. ‘The track which I told
you about runs alongside the river, straight through the woodland, pretty much as far as the Fosse Way.’

  Eofer nodded. ‘Get them across and heading south straightaway. The sooner I get off this road, the better I will feel.’

  Ioan snorted a reply. ‘You and me both, lord.’

  Osbeorn had already led the advance party across in a storm of hoofbeats, and Eofer indicated that they move on with a wave of his arm as he waited for the rearguard to come up. His eyes moved among the leading group as they cantered along the far bank until he spotted the short figure of the Saxon boy among them. The lad was conscious now, sitting upright in his saddle again as he recovered from Eofer’s blow and the fall which followed it. The thegn was pleased to see that he rode between Horsa and Finn, and as far from any of their new British friends as possible. The latest additions to the ranks of his duguth would guard him no less vigorously than the Saxon’s previous guardian, although hopefully with a happier outcome if they were called upon to defend the boy. The hostility shown towards him by Ioan and his gang was understandable of course. The Saxon had cut down one of their own, and he could only imagine his own hard-heartedness and that of his men if the dead man had belonged to Eofer’s hearth troop. But he knew that the boy could only be the son of a leading warrior in Cynas Goch’s army, his fierceness, bearing, and the quality of his clothing made that plain to see, and Eofer knew that he had captured a prize potentially more important even than the fifty war horses which they were taking back to Leircestre.

  Octa was leading the rearguard, Grimwulf, Anna, and the dark twins Crawa and Hræfen up the road towards him, and Eofer reflected as he sat and waited and the sun beat down on the changes which his hearth troop had undergone in the past few years. An involuntary smile came as he recalled his old duguth Imma Gold. The man had combined a heady mix of qualities and he missed him still. His handsome looks had been matched by the openness of his smile, he had been of the type that every man aspires to be and every woman wants to snare until a cowardly attack had laid him low beside a river in Juteland. The youth Oswin had fallen at his side, too soon to realise the full potential of his wordplay, although the memory of those verses which he had composed in life still brought a smile to the face of his lord on dark winter nights. Rand, stabbed in a moment of madness by his only shield-maiden, the Briton they had named Spearhafoc, the sparrow hawk. The girl had been a force of nature, as wild as a storm, gods-blessed he was sure. But the force and fury of their power had been too much for her, and he had banished her from his hearth after removing the fingers which she needed for her bow work. Now Thrush too was gone, he sighed, and although he knew that he had done right by his oldest friend, he knew too that he would miss his weorthman every waking moment.

  To balance the losses Tiw had seen fit to guide men of worth his way. Horsa had shared his own captivity in Daneland, while Grimwulf had been rescued from the same fate in an earlier raid. Both men had added remarkable qualities to his war band, and he was proud of them both. The youth Anna had joined them after the war of fire and steel, following the death of his father during the battle at the ridge against Ubba silk beard and his men. The boy’s smithing skills had been more useful than he could have ever imagined, and the small hand axes which were the lad’s speciality, the franciscas that had given the Franks their name, had added a useful and deadly weapon to their arsenal.

  The sound of approaching horses drew his attention back to the south, and he urged his own mount back onto the roadway with a squeeze of his knees. Octa came up, reining in and shooting his lord a grin. ‘It’s all clear as far as we can see, lord,’ he cried as the others bunched in his wake. ‘We spotted a small hillock off to one side of the road and watched from there. We could see a good mile or so back the way we came and there was no sign of any pursuit, there must have been even fewer men in the Cair than we thought. Maybe,’ he added with a wicked smile, ‘we should double back, chase away the garrison and round up the rest of the herd?’

  ‘Or,’ Eofer replied, ‘we could not test the benevolence of the gods, get off the road and rejoin the others before their friends return. Come on, let’s get going. I have a feeling that this place is going to get a lot busier sooner rather than later.’

  Octa fell in at his side as they passed the stone pillars which marked the entrance to the bridge itself and clattered across. Once they had gained the track Eofer dug in his heels and increased the pace to a gallop. Despite the lack of opposition to the raid from the men within the Cair, he was well aware that the valley of the Trenta contained an invading army. At any moment a column of horswealas could appear from any direction. If a strong force of horse Welsh did suddenly harden from the heat haze, the successes of the morning could easily turn into a disaster, not only for Eofer and his men, but also for the English settlements this side of the Fens. Shorn of its commander and a large part of its garrison Leircestre, a key fortress in the region, would lay at the mercy of Cynlas Goch and his rampaging army. Despite the telltale dust cloud which the increase in pace produced, Eofer was certain that it was a risk worth taking.

  The tree line was within sight as the land rose gently away from the floodplain of the Trenta and they soon passed into its welcome embrace, the only evidence of their passage a brace of startled egrets, the white of their plumage stark against a sky of the bluest hue.

  Back within the shadows the ground underfoot was still moist from the morning dew, and Eofer urged his horse on as the likelihood of pursuit receded a little with every step. Within a short while the tail end of the column came into view, and Eofer instinctively slowed his mount as he saw that they had come to an unexpected halt. Octa was an experienced duguth, a doughty warrior, the veteran of many shield walls, and he too had sensed that all was not well ahead, urging his horse alongside his lord as his hands moved instinctively to release the linen peace bands which held his sword secure within its scabbard. His reaction when it came was short and to the point, and Eofer felt a flutter of pride that his hearth man was as steadfast as the name of old king Offa’s sword.

  ‘Trouble?’

  Eofer shrugged, twisting in his saddle to speak to the others. ‘Something may be wrong up ahead, prepare yourselves.’ As the youth donned their helms and hefted spears, Eofer turned back to Octa. ‘Ready Oct’? Let’s go and see what is holding them up.’

  As they came up the looks which greeted them seemed to confirm the suspicion that the halt had been called to await their arrival, and the riders moved aside as best they could to enable the pair to squeeze past them between the narrow path and the riverbank. The captive horses were strung out in a line, each group of ten linked to the lead horse by a length of rope attached to a head collar. Ioan and his men had dismounted and the Welshman handed the rope to one of his men as he saw that Eofer had arrived. He came across and the Englishman saw the disquiet on his features.

  ‘Smoke lord, up ahead,’ he said, as Eofer swung himself down from the back of his own mount and joined him on the track.

  Eofer raised his chin, drawing in the air like a hound seeking a scent. He shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t get it.’ He glanced at Octa who shook his own head in reply.

  Osbeorn and the others had ridden forward fifty yards as they used the added height to scan the way ahead for the source of the smoke, and the duguth slid from the saddle as he saw his lord approach and doubled back to join them. ‘I thought that I caught a whiff a short while ago lord but I could not be sure. These boys seem pretty certain, though.’

  Ioan nodded. ‘We are. If Cynfelyn says that he smells smoke there is a fire nearby, you can be sure of it.’

  ‘There is always the smell of woodsmoke hanging in the air, even in high summer. Could it just be a nearby hearth, or someone clearing land?’ Eofer suggested. ‘Or charcoal makers?’

  Ioan spoke to Cynfelyn and beckoned him across. The Welshman hitched up his shirt, twisting around to reveal an angry puckered slash which cut across the skin of his back as Ioan spoke again. ‘If
anyone can tell the difference between an innocent hearth fire and burning wattle and thatch lord, it’s Cynfelyn. This is from the falling beam which pinned him when his childhood home was fired by a Powys raiding party and saved his life.’ Eofer looked askance and Ioan explained. ‘His family were slaughtered, but the burning beam trapped him in the building until the end wall collapsed. It buried him but also put the flames out, and he was able to dig himself out when the raiders had left.’

  The canopy above the track swayed gently as light airs plucked at the treetops, the breeze finally carrying the unmistakable smell of burning to the wider group. There was no longer any doubt, and Eofer hauled himself back into the saddle, donning his battle helm and hefting his spear. ‘Bring the horses along slowly,’ he said, ‘while we spy out the road ahead.’ The men of his hearth were copying their lord’s action, urging their mounts into line as they waited for Eofer to make his way forward to lead them. He paused before he moved away as instincts honed to a keen edge across the battlefields of the northern world caused him to nail Ioan with a stare. As lovable a rogue as the man seemed, he was without doubt still a rogue. ‘We will see you soon; remember that a few of my youth are still at the rear of the column. If we don’t meet again very soon and this is a ruse to make off with the horses, if you somehow manage to drift away with my valuable prizes or my men come to any harm, no wasteland would be remote enough nor sea wide enough to keep you from tasting the edge of my sword.’