The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Icel took another drink as Eofer sat enthralled at the tale. A day of introspection and awkward questions concerning his marriage had been replaced by tales of Offa and Arthur. He took the opportunity to guzzle from his cup as Icel continued. ‘You remember the bard that accompanied Ceretic ap Cynfawr, the legate from The Peaks?’

  Eofer nodded. ‘The one who told the tale of Arthur’s twelve great battles?’

  ‘Well, half of those battles took place against the people we now call the Lindisware, five of which were battles against Winta and his men. The Engles held a ford on a river called the Dubglas which Arthur and his horse warriors had to take to advance on the capital at Cair Lind Colun, what they now call Lindcylene. In five great battles, the English had the victory, but the British king of Lind Colun fell there in the final attack. He died without leaving an heir, so the grateful citizens in Lindcylene raised Winta to the king helm and married women from the leading families to his war leaders. The children of these took English names and embraced our gods to honour their fathers, and within a generation it was becoming difficult to tell Briton and Engle apart.’

  ‘So, if Winta was so successful,’ Eofer asked with a frown. ‘Why did he not pay scot to Offa, his kinsman and lord?’

  Icel snorted. ‘I think that he must have thought that the gods had a hand in his elevation. At the same time that Winta was winning his war against Arthur, Offa went to Valhall and was succeeded by my grandfather, Engeltheow. As you know both the Saxons in the south and the Jutes to the north took the opportunity to test the mettle of the new king and the first years of the reign were hectic to say the least. Winta and his men were forgotten, and they obviously decided that they liked it that way.’ To Eofer’s surprise the ætheling chuckled at the thought. ‘Who can really blame them, Eofer? They had fought well and carved themselves a kingdom from the body of Britannia with sword and spear, defeating her greatest son along the way. Who has ever given up a king helm manfully earned, and volunteered to be an under-king?’

  ‘But all that changed when King Eomær led the people here,’ Eofer said as he began to understand. ‘Suddenly there was a powerful English kingdom an hour’s sailing from their coast and armies spilling out beyond the great marsh of The Fens.’ He took a sip from his cup and raised a brow. ‘Better by far to throw open your arms in welcome, offer your kin all the help that you can and apologise for the wrongheadedness of men long dead, than find a field of spears coming against you up Ermine Street or the Fosse Way.’

  Icel clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You see? You are already starting to think like an ealdorman.’

  Eofer narrowed his eyes as a thought came to him. ‘If I was Ealdorman of Leircestre, where would you be, lord?’

  Icel laughed aloud. ‘Don’t worry, I am not about to go off campaigning without you. I intend to push our borders northwards from here, across the Trenta and into the southern part of The Peaks. King Sawyl has already agreed to cede part of the northern bank to us in return for our help against Cynlas Goch and his Powys’. I am thinking of naming our new lands along the Trenta, Mercia, the Marches, to reflect the old borderland along the River Egedore fixed by Offa the Great, back home in Engeln.’

  ‘Not West Anglia then, lord?’

  Icel shook his head. ‘I want to push against all of our borders and see what gives. If we can move west into Powys all well and good. But the Lindisware already have Anglian settlers on the north bank of the River Humbre, we may be able to expand in that direction.’ He pulled a grin. ‘West Anglia would sound a bit daft then, wouldn’t it? Mercia means the same, whichever way that border lies. Whatever the future holds for us Eofer, you can rest easy that it will have more than enough opportunities to build reputations. There is still plenty of fighting to come, enough even for you king’s bane! Think my offer over,’ he said, as he stood and placed a hand on Eofer’s shoulder. ‘Astrid will think herself lucky soon enough. Geatland is lost, all our futures lie here, on this side of the sea.’

  Icel walked away to leave his thegn to mull over his words. Eofer let his eyes run around the great hall as he pondered the idea of ealdormanship. The hall which could be his own dwarfed that which he had had built back in Snæpe, and he gave a drink fuelled snigger as he realised that the building there could fit inside with room to spare. The long walls were built of Roman brick, lime plastered from wainscoting to ceiling. Painted upon these, life-sized figures enacted the tales familiar to all; gods fought giants, eorles fought foemen, slew dragons. Sturdy posts of seasoned oak marched away towards the far gable wall, the heroes and dragons carved upon them picked out in reds and blues and gold, mirroring those on the walls to either side. High above, the old fire-eaten rafters had been dragged down and replaced, the stout beams, honey gold in their newness, cradling a roof of russet thatch. Four stone-edged hearths ran down the centre, drawing his eye towards the only wall built by English hands. The gable wall here had long since fallen when the ætheling had arrived the previous summer. Now it had been replaced in northern fashion. A framework of oak posts and beams abutted the old Roman brickwork, the joints and scarfs carved into the heads of fantastic beasts to protect those inside from murderous trolls, night-gangers and the spellweorc of witches.

  Eofer walked back to the northern end of the hall as the sound of laughter echoed in the great space. A platform had been raised there bearing two chairs. The higher one was sturdier, high backed between twin god-pillars, one carved in honour of Thunor the other Woden, the Allfather. This was the lord of the hall’s gift-stool, the high seat of honour, and Eofer fingered the armrest as he imagined the space before him ablaze with life. Warriors cram benches, perched on the walls behind them their weapons: swords, axes and spears glow dully in the crimson light reflected from fire pits. Rushlights flare in sconces of horn and silver: lines of shields bearing the burning hart of their lord march away at their sides. He turns aside and Astrid beams with pleasure from the lady of the hall’s chair as thræls scatter sweet smelling juniper along the walkways. All her hopes and dreams made real by four over-mighty walls.

  ‘Ealdorman?’

  The voice broke into his thoughts, and Eofer looked up as the dream faded. ‘Icel?’

  ‘Before you decide on the wall hangings,’ the ætheling said with a smile, ‘we have more work to do. While you have been annoying the enemy, I too have been busy. The final battle for control of the Trenta Valley is almost upon us, but before the armies come together I want you to harry them one last time.’

  12

  Eofer rested his back against the bole of the tree. Reaching out he snapped another strand of grass, stripped the outer sheath with his thumbnail and wedged it into the gap at the top of his front teeth.

  ‘Very countryfied,’ Octa said as he glanced across with a smile. ‘We’ll make a farmer of you yet, lord.’

  Eofer put on a rustic accent as he replied, and the rest of the troop chuckled gently as Octa went back to checking the hooves of his horse for small stones and the like. ‘Nowt wrong with turning sods, lad.’

  Stretched out, relaxing in the warmth of a high summer’s day, the others joined in as Octa ran the palm of his hand along the horse’s hocks.

  ‘Nor, mucking out pig shit. Nowt wrong with that.’

  ‘Aye, nor breaking your back picking a field of peas.’

  ‘And what about starving when the rains don’t come, or come too late?’

  ‘Aye, that be true. Or some bastard army waits until you have spent the year ploughing, sowing, weeding and harvesting. You have all of it safely stashed away and then they turn up and take turns with your wife and daughters before they carry the lot off, and you have to watch the bairns slowly starve to death over the course of the winter. That be good.’

  The sound of hoofbeats carried to them in their restful glade, and the humour melted away like morning mist as the men jumped to their feet, all thoughts of the rigours and dangers which was the lot of humble ceorls everywhere driven from their minds.

 
; The men relaxed a touch when they saw who the rider was, but Eofer was pleased to see that most were beginning to check their weapons nevertheless. The horseman came into the clearing, guiding the animal across to the place where Eofer was brushing twigs and earth from the seat of his breeks.

  ‘There is one coming, lord.’

  Eofer spat out the stalk and nodded. ‘How far have they got?’

  ‘They are just nearing the place where the river takes a wide sweep to the south,’ Einar replied. ‘At the speed they are rowing I would say that they will be at the bridge not long after we reach it ourselves.’

  Eofer nodded his thanks, flashing them all a smile as he mounted his own steed. The young Geat had proven his worth over the past few weeks, a time spent raiding and harrying the Powys outliers and supply wagons as Eofer sought to snap at Cynlas Goch’s heels until the English and their British allies could gather their own army and put the beast to the sword. A tug at the reins and Horsa appeared at his side.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  Edging out from the tree cover, Eofer led the war troop across the meadow to the dusty track. The boat would need to negotiate a sharp bend before they came into view and the Engles would be gone long before that occurred. The track curved away to the east, before joining the main route which ran as close to the Trenta as the gentle hills allowed. The arc would lead them even further away from the searching eyes of the guards on the supply boat, closer still to their destination, and Eofer once again sent a word of thanks winging its way to the Welshman Ioan whose local knowledge had proven such a boon in his raiding of the past few weeks.

  Within a half mile they were there and the thegn drew rein, slowing to a walk as the others came up. ‘Remember,’ he said as they left the track and walked their mounts onto the packed earth of the main highway. ‘We are approaching from upriver so the men on guard should assume that we are Powys’ until it is far too late. Whatever happens,’ he added, ‘none of them must escape to warn those at the fort. Should one of them escape and get through to his friends we will not only have wasted our time, but thrown away a fantastic opportunity to hit these bastards where it hurts and lay the groundwork for our ultimate victory. Keep your shields in their carrying pouches and spears slung.’ He shot them all a grin. ‘We are all friends after all!’

  The gesture was returned as the men of Eofer’s hearth troop rechecked straps and fittings. Happy that all was well, the thegn clicked his horse on as the men fell into line in his wake.

  The day was warm but overcast, a typical British summer day Eofer thought as he rode steadily along. White puffy clouds rolled slowly across from the west with only the occasional gull grey erratic to spoil the purity of a sky scrubbed clean of colour. Near the river the first horseflies and midges of the year hazed the air, and the men watched in fascination as arrow winged swallows and martins swooped and banked only inches from the ground as they harvested the summer bounty.

  Rounding a bend the bridge hove into view, and Eofer kept the pace at a steady canter as the faces of the guards turned their way. A man slid from the parapet with an obvious sense of reluctance, stretching and placing the palms of his hands against his lower back as his friends strolled across to retrieve their weapons from a spear rack. Eofer allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation. He had purposefully allowed this to become a backwater in the ongoing conflict between the Powys’ and their foes, bypassing the area during his recent spate of attacks on the enemy’s supply line and fort-lets with just this in mind. Lulled into a false sense of security the bridge should fall to them with barely a fight.

  Raising his gaze, Eofer saw the heat-haze shimmering over the land beyond the bridge. The valley of the Trenta was wide here, the lush greens of the water meadow which flanked each bank rising gently until they met the darker greens and browns of the woodland fringe. The men before him were likely to be smallholders, flock-men and the like, the equivalent of the English freeman the ceorl. He looked back at the men on the bridge and saw the way that they were attempting to add a touch of the fighting man to their bearing and imagined their thoughts. Real warriors were approaching and they would do their best to appear worthy of the task which had been assigned to them, but both sides would know the truth; they were there because it was a duty owed their lord. A payment in return for a roof over their family’s head, just another obligation like the rest: the first bag of flour from the new harvest, ploughing his lord’s land before his own. These men were clearly what the British called the Militia, and a pang of regret that he was to be the cause of their death came over the Englishman as he watched the men put on a show, pulling themselves up proudly to welcome their betters.

  The roadway divided before them and Eofer guided his mount away from the main track, leading the troop along the steady curve which led to their goal. The sentinels were lined up beside the approach itself and Eofer raised a hand in greeting in a final act of deception as he saw the face of what must be the leader come clear of the line and turn his way. Within moments they were upon them, and the thegn reined in as his men clattered onto the bridge and formed a menacing half circle around the bemused Britons. Free of the need for further subterfuge spears came into English hands, and Eofer slipped from his saddle and stood before what he took to be the leader of the little group.

  ‘Does anyone here speak English? Saxon? Any language of Germania?’

  The men cast fearful glances, enough to tell the thegn that they were aware of the words English and Saxon, if not conversant in the languages themselves. He tried again in broken Welsh.

  ‘Saesneg? Sacson? Unrhyw iaith Germania?’

  One of the men piped up, putting on a brave face, but the quiver in his voice betrayed the fear there. ‘I know some Saxon, lord,’ he offered. ‘Enough to get by.’

  ‘Good,’ Eofer replied. ‘You are?’

  ‘Cadog, lord.’

  ‘Cadog, tell your friends what I have to say and you may get the chance to see your loved ones again.’ He looked the Briton in the eye and could see that he understood completely, but he made the point again just to make sure that the man was well aware that he held the lives of them all, if not in his hand, certainly within the honesty of his words. Eofer added a splash of menace to his gaze as he spoke again. ‘I know a fair smattering of Welsh, as do most of my men. I am sure that between us we could converse in your tongue, but as I am a thegn and my men are the ones pointing spears at your throats,’ he smiled wolfishly, ‘Saxon it is. Bear that in mind when you translate. Just answer my questions simply and accurately and there need be no bloodshed here.’

  The Briton nodded enthusiastically as his friends’ eyes danced from Eofer to the spearpoints and back again.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we still have a little time to kill, enough to allow us to become better acquainted. Tell me your usual trades or occupations, how you spend your days when not invading other folk’s lands.’

  The guard turned to the others and spoke a few words in Welsh. One by one the men reeled off their usual occupations as the Saxon speaker added the translation. It was as he had suspected. Before him stood two shepherds, a huntsman and a smallholder. The earlier jokey conversation about the lot of the common folk had touched a nerve and he would spare them if he could, but the time available for merciful acts was running out now: he would have to move quickly. The boat would be nearing the bend in the Trenta, once it had completed the turn the bridge would hove into view, especially from the raised platform where the steersman plotted the course ahead. They would need to be out of sight long before that happened, or risk the success of the entire enterprise.

  The dark twins, Crawa and Hræfen, had been entrusted with caring for the horses, following along as stealthily as they could until the main attack was over and the time came for their hearth mates to make their escape. A quick glance upriver confirmed that there was as yet no sign of the enemy boat and Eofer reached a decision. ‘Cadog, our new land of Mercia has use for shepherds, huntsmen and soil ti
llers and you will be welcome to stay once we have driven Cynlas Goch and his rag-tag army back beyond the forest of Canoc. But for now at least I realise that your loyalties must lie elsewhere, and I would expect you to carry word of our presence straight to our enemies. Tell your friends what I have said, and tell them to remove their clothes and boots as quickly as they can and I will let you live.’

  The guard thought to argue, but a look from Eofer told him that that would be unwise. As he relayed the instruction to his companions, the men of Eofer’s troop were dismounting, unstrapping helms and shields from the flanks of their horses as they prepared for the fighting to come.

  The twins were already slipping a rope through the harnesses of each mount as they prepared to lead the horses back into cover as Eofer spoke again. ‘Lads, bind them hand and foot and throw them across the backs of the horses. Make certain that we have been successful before you take off,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to end up stranded here without our horses should anything go wrong.’ He pulled a wry smile. ‘I daresay that Cynlas Goch and his men would dearly love to come across us wandering about like Christian pilgrims, especially after the mayhem we have been causing over the last few weeks. Once we are on our way, take our friends here deep into the backwoods and cut the soles of their feet. Set them free there and follow on as we planned; if one of them is a huntsman as they say he should be able to lead them out.’ He caught Hræfen’s eye as the youth began sawing at a length of rope, preparing the bindings he would need. ‘Make the cuts nice and deep, we don’t want them to hobble out too fast. Oh,’ he added as the youth moved towards the first of the prisoners. ‘Leave them a couple of spears, just in case wolves pick up the smell of blood. They are having a bad enough day as it is.’