The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Men smiled and dipped their heads as Eofer passed, thankful that the fightback had begun. Ioan and his men were travelling in the opposite direction having already deposited the newly enslaved Powys’ with an associate, and he shot the thegn a grin and gave the thumbs up, jangling a bulging bag of silver as he made his way towards The Tewdwr. Eofer snorted. Three days had passed since they had first met in the tavern but it felt like three weeks, and he suddenly felt weary as he made his way across the open space at the centre of the town.

  A figure was striding towards him, and Eofer knew immediately that this was the man who had sought him out across the waves. Tall and slim, the warrior’s weatherbeaten features showed the thankful if deadpan expression of a man who was nearing the end of a long journey. A simple woollen cap and a close cropped beard sat above hardy travelling clothes of the finest quality, and Eofer slowed his pace as the guard left them to return to his duties. Osbeorn walked ahead to ensure that the messenger was unarmed before admitting him to the presence of his lord. Eofer had killed a king of Swedes in battle and they would have as good a cause as any to want him dead. Satisfied that all was well, the duguth stood aside as the stranger dipped his head.

  ‘Welcome to Leircestre, Einar Haraldson,’ Eofer said with a smile. ‘Congratulations, you have found me at last.’

  The ghost of a smile played about the man’s lips at the thegn’s jaunty welcome, but he quickly suppressed it as he prepared to speak. Eofer knew the impatience he must be feeling to finally complete the task given him by his own lord. He was not so easy to find, having the tendency to take off at a moment’s notice. It was a quality which his wife had found exciting in the early years, but one which had begun to come between them as they aged and their priorities in life had begun to drift ever wider apart. As the Geat prepared to speak Eofer realised with a start that it was the first time that he had thought of Astrid since he had watched Icel depart, that morning on the wall with Hemming, and he wondered at it. Einar spoke again drawing his attention back to the present, but not before the now familiar hollow feeling when he thought of his home life stole upon him. Suddenly he realised who the man standing before him must be; this was no Swede but a Geat, and an icy cold hand twisted his gut as he steeled himself and voiced his greatest fear. ‘Weohstan?’

  ‘Your son is well, lord,’ Einar replied with a smile of reassurance.

  As a sense of relief drove the chilling fear from him, Eofer saw the Geat flick at look at Osbeorn and Octa and moved to lay his concerns. ‘These men are two of my duguth, doughty warriors who have my full confidence. Anything you have to say to me can be said in their presence.’ He looked around to check that they were out of earshot of any passers by, but those in sight were giving the group a wide berth as they hurried down to discover the cause of the commotion at the stables. ‘Deliver your message Einar, you’ll be hard pressed to find a quieter place in a town the size of Leircestre.’

  The Geat composed himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he finally spoke the words he had rehearsed in his mind throughout the long journey from his distant homeland:

  ‘Heardred, King of Geats, lord of Wægmundings, bids his most honoured kinsman Eofer Wonreding health and joy. May he drive his enemies before him, crush their proud necks and take pleasure from the wailing of their women.

  You will be aware of the situation here in Geatland. Ever since I offered my protection to the æthelings Eanmund and Eadgils, their uncle, King Onela has pressed for their return. However, powerful forces within Swedeland wished to avenge the death of the old king Othere and the æthelings, Othere’s sons, naturally became the focus of their hopes. Already facing the enmity of king Onela’s allies the Danes, I had little option but to offer Geatish aid to the rival faction.

  It would seem that I was mistaken in doing so.

  My borders are harried daily and a full invasion is expected before the barley ripens. When last we met you promised me your sword on a windswept Frisian strand. I take up that offer now. Gather a mighty host about you‚ sword-bold victory thegn. Come east across the prow-plain; let us fight again shoulder to shoulder, Engle and Geat, as did our own fathers before us.’

  Eofer’s heart sank as the Geat stood back, the relief at finally fulfilling his mission written on his face. Clearly the man was expecting him to jump for joy at the prospect of war, but Eofer knew that the news could scarcely have come at a worse time. His mind raced as it desperately scratched about, forming a reply to the messenger’s expertly delivered communication which would enable him to delay his decision without appearing anything other than thrilled by the request.

  Before him the Geat was smiling, but the smile was beginning to slowly seep away like ale from a cracked drinking horn as confusion at the thegn’s lack of reaction showed in his eyes. ‘That’s excellent news!’ he answered finally, reaching forward to grasp the messenger by the arms. The Geat’s face creased into a smile as he got the reaction he had expected all along, and Eofer placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘It will take me a few days to make my plans, and then you can convey my reply back to my kinsman. I am sure that you could do with a celebratory drink now that you have fulfilled your task, this is Osbeorn‚’ he said, ushering the man forward. ‘He will take you down to the best tavern in Leircestre where you can meet some of my lads.’

  Einar made to reply, but Osbeorn had caught the look in his lord’s eye and knew what was required: before a sound could leave his mouth the Geat was being led away. As the sound of his duguth describing the delights to be had at The Tewdwr became lost in the general hubbub of the burh, Eofer shared a look with Octa at his side. ‘Shit!’ he hissed. ‘That is all we need.’ He sighed and pursed his lips as his duguth waited to hear what was to happen next. Normally Hemming would have been on hand, offering good advice before he even had time to ask, but those days were gone. Until one of the duguth showed that he was the man for the job he would have to make do with a more general gathering when he needed advice, but at least he now knew the ideal place to go. ‘Tell the duguth that we will meet at the mithraeum at sundown,’ he said. ‘Get yourself down to the Tewdwr and tell the man himself to have plenty of ale and mead there in good time and we will discuss what to do.’

  Octa dipped his head and scurried away, but paused and turned back as Eofer called after him. ‘And keep an eye on our young Saxon friend. Let him drink as much as he wants but don’t let him go upstairs, especially if Horsa is up there. We don’t want to frighten the lad!’ They shared a laugh as Eofer, finally alone, let his eyes run across the town as he thought. It would be midsummer in three days and preparations for the festivities were already underway. With Icel still in the north he would normally have been expected to preside over the midsummer Thing, the great council of the leading men in the area, but the war had changed that. Now men were loathe to leave their steadings unguarded, and he had sent word that they should remain there until the situation improved. That at least had been a blessing of sorts, but it added yet another reason why it would be difficult for him to leave.

  As for gathering a mighty host, he snorted at the thought. With Hemming now at Tamtun, it would take all the men that Eofer could scrape together just to give his old weorthman an even chance of surviving the storm which would soon break upon his wooden walls, much less assemble a ship army to fight overseas. He raised his eyes, gazing out across the wide expanse of the old Roman forum. Men were happy, a victory had been snatched from the jaws of the Powys wolf, and now this.

  A harsh prrrk drew his eyes westward. Shielding them with the ledge of his hand, Eofer squinted into the glare and wondered at the sign he saw there. The raven called again, dipping a wing to beat its way northwards as the dragon flag of Anglia snapped at its tail.

  9

  A drawn-out belch echoed in the space as the others exchanged a grin. ‘No,’ Osbeorn continued before taking another slug of ale, ‘don’t laugh, I mean it. What word is most likely to be the last one you say before you cr
oak?’

  ‘Handfast.’

  They all turned their faces towards Octa as Osbeorn screwed up his face. ‘Handfast?’

  Octa nodded as the laughter danced on in the eyes of his companions. Eofer was sat at the head of the chamber, and he chuckled to himself. The ale was weaving its spell. Soon the father of the gods would enter their minds and the giddiness would be upon them. Rank and seniority would be forgotten, and Eofer would discover the true feelings of his men. A pang of regret came again at the absence of Hemming, his right hand man in so many ways, but he was pleased and a little surprised to find that the feeling of loss was passing as he became more and more comfortable with the fact. On the long bench opposite Osbeorn was repeating his question as the others exchanged looks of amusement. ‘Handfast? That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Sure it does,’ Octa replied. ‘You asked what’s the last word you will say before you die. Just before I die, old and toothless, I am going to say but I didn’t know she was handfast!’

  As laughter thundered in the small space of the temple, Osbeorn frowned. ‘No,’ he said levelly, ‘that’s not what I asked.’

  Eofer settled in at his place at the head of the room, watching the conversation with interest. He had removed himself from the group with this type of drink-fuelled confrontation in mind, and he watched keenly as Octa defended his reply. ‘Yes you did. You said, what word is most likely to be the last one you say before you croak, and I said handfast and told you why.’

  ‘But that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Then you should have made yourself clearer.’

  Hackles were beginning to rise, and Eofer recognised the moment when the smiles began to fade from the faces of his jovial band and the air in the small room began to crackle with menace.

  Denied his favourite pickled eggs due to the fact that they were to spend the night cooped up like chucks in a hen house, Osbeorn had been in a sulk all afternoon. That was his own business, but he had brought the bad humour to the mithraeum and that was Eofer’s. That there had been a reason for it, however trivial, was neither here nor there; it was his lord’s request and he was obliged to put his own problems to one side. Eofer had heard it said that his duguth’s farts were strong enough to let themselves out of the room more times than he cared to recall, but he had a serious problem to discuss and, short of a weorthman, he had sought their advice.

  As the pair glared across the short divide, Horsa made his own contribution to the conversation.

  ‘Ooh.’

  All faces turned his way, and Osbeorn screwed up his face in question. ‘Ooh?’

  ‘Yes, ooh,’ Horsa repeated. He reached forward, refilling Osbeorn and Octa’s cups before topping up his own and explaining his remark. ‘A few years ago, when Æmma had my oath, we were raiding down in Frankland.’

  Eofer sat back, impressed by the way in which his new duguth had snuffed out the rising tension in the room. Humorous stories and tales of fighting were always guaranteed to capture a warrior’s undivided attention, to combine the two had been a masterstroke. He settled back to enjoy the tale as the tension drained away and the anticipation of a good tale showed on men’s faces. Most of Eofer’s men had lived their entire adulthood in each others company, and the fact that Horsa had travelled widely as a member of Æmma’s oath-sworn meant that suddenly there was a new stock of tales to be had as they sat at their cups.

  ‘We had raided this settlement and were making our way back to the ships when the local lord turned up and blocked our path,’ he began as a hush descended on the little room. ‘Anyway to cut a long story short it came to push of shields‚ and I managed to skewer this Frank with my spear and he just went...ooh.’

  There was a moment when the men in the room exchanged looks of wonder, before a thunderous laughter boomed in the space. Eofer found that he too was laughing uncontrollably at the absurdness of the tale as Octa, forgetting his spat with Osbeorn, added to the mirth. ‘What,’ he said, ‘just...ooh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Horsa replied as the laughter redoubled. ‘Just...ooh...like that. But because of the way he said it, like I had just trod on his toe or something, without thinking I said sorry.’

  As the men doubled up, Horsa managed to blurt out the remainder of his tale. ‘Anyway,’ he said, as the others wiped tears from their eyes, ‘as he starts to go down we make eye contact, and I can see him thinking, “you see all that blue shit sliding down my legs? That’s my guts you bastard, it’s a bit fucking late for sorry!”’

  Eofer flicked a look towards Osbeorn to catch his reaction to the story but, to his disappointment, he still appeared put out that his question had not been treated with the seriousness he thought it deserved. The duguth was sat with pinched lips as he glowered at the others, and Eofer watched with interest as he finally gave up any hope of having his original question answered to his satisfaction and supplied the answer himself: ‘It’s shit.’

  The others were beginning to recover their composure after Horsa’s tale, and they exchanged looks of bemusement as Octa looked across and narrowed his eyes. ‘What is mate?’

  ‘That’s the word which most people say as they die: shit. Think about it,’ he went on as the others began to snigger. ‘Remember the time down in Frisia when that fool tried to oar walk in his mail shirt and he slipped after about three oars? What did he say before he disappeared beneath the surface?’

  Octa nodded. ‘It’s true, he did say shit; just before he smacked his face on the wale.’

  ‘And what did that Dane say back in Scania, when he realised that we had trapped them between Eadward’s shield wall and our own, and Spearhafoc’s arrows were whistling around his ears?’

  ‘You are right, he said shit, too,’ Octa admitted. ‘Still,’ he added with a smirk. ‘It’s not as funny as...ooh. Like ooh... you bugger, or ooh...you pinched my skin then!’

  As the others began to laugh again, Osbeorn’s expression began to cloud over. Eofer decided that he had seen enough. Leaning forward from the shadows, the eorle cut in before all of Horsa’s good work was undone. ‘That’s enough oohing and buggering for now, you are all here to help me decide how we respond to King Heardred’s call for help. I will tell you all I know, and if anyone has any thoughts on what we do next this would be a good time and place to share them, here, under the watchful eye of the Roman warrior-god.’ Eofer glanced at the tablet inset into the wall at the head of the underground room to add emphasis to his words. Foreign or not a god was a god, and their own ancestors had not been so remote that they had been unaware of the might which had been the empire of Rome.

  As the mirth subsided and men set their faces he addressed them again. ‘As you will all know by now, Geatland is threatened with invasion by the Swedes, possibly in alliance with our old friends the Danes. King Heardred has asked for my help to face down these twin threats with what men I can attract to my banner, a thing which I am honour-bound to do not only through our ties of kinship, but to repay the help and succour which he showed to you lads when you turned up out of the blue in his kingdom with a small army of huscarls hot on your heels.’

  The duguth gave a snort of irony as they thought back on the long chase through the backwoods of Scania. They owed the Geats their lives and were eager to help, but the timing was appalling as Eofer confirmed.

  ‘Unfortunately this request could hardly have come at a worse time. Not only are our settlements here in the marches under attack, but we have Thrush and his lads at Tamtun depending on us for support.’ He spread his hands. ‘You all know the problems, what do you suggest that I do?’

  ‘Hemming’s big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself, lord,’ Osbeorn volunteered. ‘As to the settlements there,’ he jerked his head northwards towards the distant valley of the River Trenta. ‘The ætheling will be back soon enough, possibly bringing reinforcements in addition to more horses. If we make our preparations now, we can be ready to leave the moment that he gets back.’

  Eofer nodded but k
ept his thoughts to himself, using the awkward silence to draw further comments from those before him. To his surprise Finn was next to voice an opinion, and the eorle encouraged the youngest and newest member of his duguth with a smile. ‘You could leave me here, lord, with the youth,’ he offered. ‘Then you could leave Leircestre as soon as you are ready. We could ensure that Hemming is not forgotten and fight alongside the ætheling and his men if they need us.’

  A murmur passed along the bench as the duguth discussed the merits of Finn’s suggestion before Octa spoke up in support. ‘It’s worth considering, lord. We could send riders back to Anglia tomorrow, spreading the word and asking for men to muster at Snæpe. By the time we get there we could already have a ship-army set to sail.’

  Eofer swept them all with a look. ‘So, that’s what you all think? We either split our force or go straight to Geatland? Either way you think that we should go?’

  Horsa cleared his throat, waiting until he had attracted their attention before offering his own advice. ‘I don’t think that either of those options are wise, lord,’ he said. ‘I know that I have only been in your hearth troop for a short time, and I was not present when the Geatish thegn protected the boys from the Danes, but I think that we need to finish what we have started here before we take ourselves off across the German Sea.’

  Eofer worried his beard as he replied. ‘And abandon my kinsman, the brother of my wife, to his fate? And what of my son?’

  ‘With all respect, Lord,’ Horsa went on. ‘If the Swedes and Danes are looking to attack the Geats in unison, there is not much that the number of warriors which you can attract to your banner in such a short time could do to change the inevitable outcome. The Geats lost a good part of their army down in Frisland. For King Heardred to offer sanctuary to the sons of Ohthere was unwise, to then extend that protection to King Hygelac’s son was madness.’