The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Eofer just caught the look of beatific innocence which crossed the Welshman’s face at the suggestion that he could be planning to double-cross him, before he was past and skirting the flank of his own men. Osbeorn was waiting at the head of the column with Horsa, and Eofer was pleased to see that their expressions were stone-hard as they prepared to fall in behind him. ‘Keep your wits about you lads,’ he said as he reached the clear trackway ahead, ‘there could be any number of men in the trees and we would never know until we heard the first arrow whistle past our ear.’

  The waters of the river pressed in on the track as Eofer led them southwards, the air above hazed by cranefly as the sunlight slashed the shadows. Rounding a bend the smell of burning hung in the air like a pall, and Eofer could see up ahead that the path angled away from the course of the Mease, cutting across a small glade before finally breaking out into a clearing beyond a small stand of oak.

  The first sounds began to reach them, course laughter, fearful screams, as the war band edged towards the final screen of trees. The noises were familiar to all warriors, and the men closed up, tightening straps and gripping weapons a little tighter as they prepared to face the mayhem which they knew would great them within a very few moments.

  Eofer passed from light to shade as the tree line was reached but within the blink of an eye he was through, halting his mount as he waited for the others to fan out to either side. The scene which greeted him was much as he had expected. The roadway curved away to the south-east, its stony surface stark and grey against the richness of the summer grass. Beyond it a small farmstead was burning, the liquid flames licking the doorway, the roof thatch a torch.

  The owners, a man and wife, their four sons, were already chained by the iron necklaces which denoted their new status in life, thræls, the lowest of the low. A spearman stood over the group as others made a heap of their belongings, and the thegn made out shields and spears among them. A quick glance at the war shirts worn by the man and his eldest son confirmed that they had been the owners of the weapons, and Eofer realised that the ceorls had put up a fight before they had been overwhelmed by numbers. Such men were the future of the nation, frontiersmen who would push the English border ever westwards, ploughing their holding with one ear cocked for the war horn that would send them racing to arm; they deserved better than a life of thrældom.

  As the Englishmen drew up into a line, Eofer’s attention was drawn away to the north. At the edge of a field of barley, rich and green as it ripened under the hot sun, another of the slavers was striking an object on the ground, the man’s staff rising and falling maniacally as he struck and struck again. The first cries of alarm carried to them as a man turned to point, and men scrambled for spear and shield as they came together to face the threat which had materialised suddenly from the trees.

  Eofer and his men remained unmoving as the raiders shuffled together into a makeshift shield wall, dark faces topped by darker hair peering at them above their shield rims, and the eorle let the uncomfortable silence drag on as he sought to unnerve the slavers by his inaction. The madman at the edge of the field had finally noticed that they were no longer alone, and as he turned, Eofer saw for the first time the large wooden cross which hung at his neck. The Christ priest seemed to be the leader, and Eofer held his ground as the man stalked across to take up position at the head of his men. Planting his staff foursquare he hailed them in the Welsh tongue. ‘Welcome friends, we are here with the blessings of Cynlan Goch,’ he started, still unaware of the identity of the newcomers. ‘We do God’s work, scouring pagan filth from greater Powys so that His bounty may nourish the righteous.’

  Beyond the priest the shield men were exchanging glances, unlike their leader still unsure as to whom they were facing, and Eofer decided that the time to reveal his identity had come. The English line kept pace with him as he moved slowly forward across the clearing with Finn as Cumbolwiga, and Eofer watched in amusement as the priest attempted to make out the design on the burning hart banner as it hung lifeless in the still airs and they drew closer.

  The first doubts began to enter the mind of the man before him, and Eofer saw him take a pace back as his eyes narrowed and then widened again as he realised that these were no Christian men before him.

  Eofer raised his chin, flicking out to left and right, and the Powys’ line folded back on itself, moving into a crescent as the horsemen lowered the tips of their spears and walked forward to envelop them. To his surprise the priest grew even more emboldened as the hopelessness of his position became obvious, and the man strode free of the line as his face twisted into a snarl. ‘Be gone from here,’ he spat, flecks of spittle filling the air between them, ‘these are Christian lands. God has sent a cleansing army to scour these valleys clean of idolators. Run east, back to your snake ships, before the Lord smites you for your wickedness.’

  The mention of idolatry drew Eofer’s attention back to the field edge and he slid from the saddle, barging the priest aside with the wide board of his shield as he walked across. It was how he had expected to find it, and Eofer’s hand moved to the golden raven which shone from Gleaming’s scabbard as he turned, his own face now a scowl of indignation. Pointing at the broken figure at his feet with the point of his spear, he struggled to contain his rage as he rounded on the Welshman. ‘Do you know who this represents?’

  Despite the evidence of his rage the priest shot back a reply, his voice heavy with pride. ‘The devil which you call Thunor, pagan.’ He raised his arms to the sky, turning in a circle as he called to the heavens. ‘Great Thunor, send a fire bolt to strike me dead for my desecration. Show these people the power of your vengeance.’ The man lowered his arms and turned back to face the Englishman. His features had softened, and he shook his head slowly as if talking to a child or a fool. ‘You see pagan, your gods have no power here. These are Christian lands and we are his people. There is only one God and Iesus is his son. Come,’ he said, painting his face with a smile as he gestured to the west. ‘Follow me to the river, let me wash the sin from you in the cleansing waters. All heaven rejoices in the repentance of a sinner.’

  Eofer could see the Welshmen shuffling their feet nervously as his eyes flicked across them and back to their leader, and he knew the thoughts which would be going through their minds. Any hope of an escape from the confrontation with their lives had probably disappeared the moment that the figure of the pagan deity had been destroyed. Now the fool had antagonised the leader of this war band further with his talk of baptism and redemption. They were dead men, only a miracle could save them now.

  Eofer, struggling to contain his rage, tossed his spear and shield aside as he untied the peace bands which held Gleaming secure in its scabbard. The sword flashed as he swept the blade clear, and he took a pace forward before the miracle which the slavers had prayed for arrived.

  ‘Lord,’ a voice cried, ‘I ask for this man’s life.’ Eofer hesitated as he recognised the voice and looked to the west. Ioan spoke again, the anguish in his voice obvious to all. ‘Lord, spare this man of God and I will forego my payment.’

  Eofer looked about him as he realised that the rest of the column had gained the clearing while his mind had been fogged with rage. The realisation had a sobering effect. If his attention could be distracted to such an extent that three score horses could arrive without his knowledge by the ramblings of a fool he had lost his edge, the edge which had kept him alive in fights from Swedeland to the lands of the Franks and beyond. He hesitated, offering the cleric a withering glare as he came to his decision. ‘Osbeorn, disarm these scavengers. If they offer any resistance kill them where they stand.’ He shifted his gaze. ‘Octa, remove the thræl collars from these folk and chain the slavers together.’ He shot Ioan a shrug and a smile. ‘If you are to give up your share of the horses, you will need to make a profit elsewhere. I am told that the girls at Tewdwr’s place don’t come cheap.’

  He turned his gaze back on the slavers and nailed them with a stare
. A heartbeat’s hesitation and the first spear clattered to the hard ground as the men lowered their shields and chose a life of thrældom over a bloody and certain death.

  Despite the fact that Ioan’s intervention had saved his life, the barbarian before him had thrown his generous offer of salvation back in his face and the priest’s eyes narrowed with hatred . ‘Burn then!’ he cried, his arms rising once again as he called down his God’s judgement. ‘Burn in hell.’

  Eofer had heard enough. His patience tested to the limit and beyond he strode forward, reversing Gleaming as he did so. As the churchman clasped the crucifix and mumbled a prayer for his own soul, Eofer’s arm swept across. A moment later a meaty thud broke the silence which hung over the clearing as Gleaming’s silver pommel made contact with the side of his skull, and a horrified gasp escaped the lips of the watching Britons as their God-man spun away.

  His temper still barely under control the eorle followed up quickly, striding forward to prick the priest’s throat with the point of his sword. ‘Never,’ he growled, ‘confuse me with someone who will worship your God of weakness. My name is Eofer king’s bane, all men of worth know my reputation. My place at the ale benches of Valhall is assured. Woden is my lord, I have no place in my heart for others.’

  Osbeorn and the men of his troop were already moving among the others, releasing the ceorls and transferring the rough iron collars to the glum looking spearmen.

  Ioan had appeared at his side, and the Briton placed his hand upon Eofer’s sword arm as he spoke. ‘That’s enough lord,’ he said. ‘I ask as a favour, let him go...for me.’

  Eofer’s eyes moved from one to the other, and although the sincerity in Ioan’s expression was genuine enough the hatred and contempt in the eyes of the priest remained.

  Gleaming whipped up then, the wicked blade paring a flap of flesh from the man’s cheek before he could raise a hand to defend himself. With a flick of his wrist Eofer severed the leather thong which suspended the crucifix at his neck, and as the pendant came away he gave the priest a hefty kick. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘be on your way. Remember this man in your prayers; he saved your miserable life here today.’

  A growl of protest came from Ioan’s men as the priest fell forward to sprawl in the dust but Eofer was past caring, and as the man scrambled to his feet and his hand moved up to push the bloody scrap of flesh back into place he shot the thegn a look of utter hatred. ‘My name is Gildas,’ he snarled. ‘Remember my name Eofer king’s bane, as I shall yours. The Lord will ensure that our paths cross again, and when they do I will watch you die.’

  8

  Eofer drew rein as the Fosse Way broke free from the confines of the trees, dipped and crossed the meadow to the age puckered walls of Leircestre. Osbeorn and Octa curbed their own mounts, fanning out protectively as the thegn indicated that the rest of the column move down into the vale. Even this close to the safety of the English town their eyes darted this way and that as they probed the shadows for any hint of a threat to their lord. He snorted softly to himself. With Hemming’s departure he would need a new weorthman. It would seem that the contest for that exalted position within his hearth troop had already begun.

  No small part of him felt relief as he saw that the white dragon still curled from the high point in the town, and he mentally shelved the excuses he had been forced to prepare for the loss of the settlement to the army of Powys while Icel had been in the north.

  He had been right after all he mused as he watched the riders cross the water meadow and approach the great gate of the city, the gods had willed him westwards for a reason. That reason had not been the most obvious one, despite the fact that they were returning with a goodly number of war-bred horses and a bonus of thræl-men in the prime of life. The reward for their aggression had been a far greater one than even the greatest of Cynlas Goch’s herds. New horses could be bred or bought but land was finite, and the presence of an English stronghold almost within sight of his base at Cair Luit Coyt would not only threaten his supplies and reinforcements but hopefully shake the confidence of his army. They would know now the mettle of the men who opposed them. If the woodlands beyond the Cair were as impenetrable as Ioan had assured him, any defeat now and their line of retreat was vulnerable to attack by this new force which had sprung up in their rear.

  The British kingdom of The Peaks to the north was already hostile to the king of Powys, his meeting with their emissary Ceretic ap Cynfawr in Icel’s hall had shown him that, there would be no escape route for a beaten army in that direction. No, Eofer reflected as he watched a haze of crows circle the distant town, Woden was fighting at their side, weaving his god-spells as he guided the English in the opening moves of the great war to come. The armies of Iesus would be thrown back to the valley of the Hafron. The weakness of the Christ priest Gildas had confirmed to him all that he had suspected, despite the hold which the God had over the people in the old lands of Rome. Christianity was a religion for weaklings and women, he himself had looked into the eye of the Allfather and seen the truth of it.

  A pang of regret overcame his thoughts at his loss, a loss which he doubted he would ever fully recover from. Hemming had gone from his immediate circle, but his old friend had acted with speed as soon as his decision to become warlord of the Tamesætan had been taken. Within the hour, the timbers which the Tame Settlers had used to ring Tamworthy had been uprooted and the new fortification of Tamtun was already beginning to take shape. Helped by the brilliance of the moon men had laboured through the night, and as the washy light of the false dawn had crept into the eastern horizon the main bank and ditch had been completed and the first of the oak timbers of the palisade slotted into place.

  It had been a wrench for both men when they had parted in the early morning. Hemming had been a youth in the hearth troop of Eofer’s father, Wonred, they had been, in fact, friends for life rather than thegn and duguth. But if any man had earned the chance to win a reputation of his own it was his bluff companion, the man who had saved his life more times than he cared to admit. Despite the disorientating sense of loss, Eofer knew that he had done the right thing. Icel’s embryonic kingdom on the Trenta needed men of Hemming’s quality if it was to survive and grow.

  Eofer came back from his thoughts. Osbeorn and Octa were still making a great show of checking the greenwood for imagined danger, and Eofer snorted again as he recognised their keenness to take up the mantle of senior duguth.

  The thegn lifted his chin and ran his gaze across the valley. The column was nearing the gatehouse, and he allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation as figures appeared among the crenellations on the wall and the guards waved in welcome.

  Among the glint of spear blades and helms a flash of blue showed where the smaller figure of Seaxwine bobbed among the riders, the captive dwarfed by the men surrounding him. The boy had opened up following Eofer’s confrontation with the slavers and the Welsh churchman Gildas, and in return for his word that he would not try to escape, Eofer had allowed him to keep the small ring sword which hung in its baldric. He had inspected the weapon as he pondered the decision and saw just how finely crafted the thing was. For a boy of his age to own such a thing had confirmed his first impression that the boy’s family must be of some importance. Slowly gaining the lad’s trust, Eofer had discovered that there was no love lost between the Christian firebrand and Cynlas Goch’s Saxon mercenaries who were still, despite the fact that most had been born and raised on the island of Britain, fervent in their devotions to the gods of their ancestors. As Eofer had suspected, the boy had turned out to be a son of the Saxon leader he now knew to be called Seaxwulf Strang, Seaxwulf the strong; he had been handed the key to unlocking the enemy, all that remained for him to do was to bring that key to the lock.

  Ahead the tail-end of riders passed into the shadow of the great wall of Leircestre, and he pursed his lips and whistled, throwing his own guards a broad smile as they turned back his way. ‘It will be a lot quieter without the big man,�
� he said as their faces brightened seeing their lord’s good humour return. ‘But at least there will be a lot more ale to go around.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The warrior indicated Icel’s hall with the point of his spear. ‘We put him up in the ætheling’s hall, lord,’ the man replied. ‘Nobody seemed to know exactly where you had gone, so we told him he had best stay put and await your return.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Say’s his name is Einar Haraldson.’

  Eofer’s eyes narrowed in surprise. ‘A Swede?’

  The guard shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t say, lord. He said that his message was for your ears only.’

  Eofer nodded as a groom came from the stables and led his mount away. Men were coming from all across the town as word spread that king’s bane had plundered the king of Powys’ fortress and made off with a number of his prized war horses, and the excitement writ large on their faces told of their pride that a blow had finally been landed on the invader. His own men were moving among them, spreading word that a new English burh had been thrown up near the headwaters of the Trenta itself. Fighting men were needed there, free land was available; every man who pledged to carry his spear to Tamtun was to assemble at the western gate at sunup the following day where silver, food and drink would be provided to see them on their way. The British had had things their own way for far too long but suddenly all could sense that the Powys’ tide, seemingly unstoppable when they awoke that morning, was on the cusp of the turn.

  ‘Right then,’ he said, as Osbeorn and Octa began to push a path through the throng with the shafts of their spears, ‘let’s go and find this mystery man and discover what is so important.’