by C. R. May
Horsa had already scooped up one of the Britons’ leather headpieces, the small dome looking more like a monk’s tonsure than a low class battle helm as it perched precariously on his head. The duguth had moved across to the western side of the bridge, and he stood staring at the distant bend where the boat must soon appear as the men he had replaced piled their clothing on the roadway behind him. Eofer laughed at the sight of the ridiculous headpiece despite the tension of the moment as he called across. ‘Nothing?’
‘Not yet, lord,’ his weorthman replied. ‘It will not be long now though.’
‘I agree. Get yourself back and sit by the far parapet, four of the youth are to replace the guards. He looked Horsa up and down. ‘The boatsman will be familiar with this stretch of water and he will be expecting to see the usual guards, or at least something similar lining the wall.’ He snorted again. ‘Not a hulking great barbarian with a pimple on his head! Get yourself over to the far side of the bridge and join the others.’
As he looked back, Eofer was pleased to see that Grimwulf and Anna had bound the naked men and were throwing the last of them across the horses. Einar crossed to join the duguth who were already in place, resting their backs against the stone parapet, fixing helms and drawing swords as they waited for the boat to arrive. Beornwulf, Porta and Bassa were already slipping into the guards’ discarded tunics and leather caps as Crawa and Hræfen mounted up and began to lead their unusual cargo back towards the tree line to the south.
‘This looks like it, lord,’ Grimwulf called out from his position at the parapet.
Eofer looked. Half a mile or so distant, the raised prow of the supply ship was edging clear of the bank as it negotiated the last of the switchbacks before the Trenta straightened out and ran down to the crossing. A quick look around confirmed that the duguth were all in position, and the last of the four youths who would replace the guards were tugging their tunics into place as they made their way across. The horses had barely left the approach road as they made their way down to the distant tree line but there was little they could do about that, it had been a close run thing as it was, but he was pleased to see that the dark twins had thought to sling the Welshmen with their heads pointing downriver. At a distance the whites of their arses should resemble sacks or linen bound packages, especially seen through the shimmering air of the heat haze which cloaked the meadow. It was just the type of sight which those on the boat could expect to see, and Eofer felt a surge of confidence as he took his place alongside the duguth. A quick look to the north-west confirmed that the roadway there was clear of traffic, and the war band settled in for the wait, fastening belt straps and preparing weapons as a break in the clouds finally revealed the sun for the first time that day.
Eofer raised his head and spoke as the youth lolled about the roadway, keen to appear as bored with their duty as the real guards had been only a short time before. Grimwulf, his elbows resting nonchalantly on the top of the stonework, spoke in a low tone as Eofer drew Gleaming from its scabbard and twisted the blade back and forth, admiring the ancient sword smith’s craft for the thousandth time as the sunlight played upon the silvery-grey swirls.
‘They are about halfway to us,’ he murmured, ‘moving quicker than I expected. Be prepared to make your move as soon as I take up my spear lord, or you could be taking a dip!’
Eofer looked to either side, exchanging a smile with his duguth. ‘Helms on I think lads,’ he said. ‘We will frighten them to death before they can even reach for their weapons. And be careful when you jump,’ he added as he pushed himself up into a crouch. ‘They will have to slow down to shoot the archway but you will disappear in an instant if you miss the boat, it would be a wretched way to die. With any luck we will have caused enough mayhem on board to take the way off the boat as it goes under the bridge. As soon as it reappears downstream, come and give us a hand.’
The group touched the tips of their weapons in the pre-battle act which the English called bindung, the binding, and a last look told the thegn that the roadway was still clear in both directions as he fingered the eye of Woden on his scabbard and sent a word of thanks to the god. The Allfather was sure to be watching, daring and cunning were two of his own traits after all, and Eofer resisted the urge to scan the tree line for a hooded traveller come to watch the show as he forced his attention back to the imminent attack.
It was not a moment too soon as Grimwulf snatched up his spear and leapt the parapet, cloak flailing as he disappeared from view. Within a heartbeat Eofer was moving, pushing himself up and forward as the remaining youth rushed across to follow in their wake. A moment’s hesitation as his eyes searched the deck below for the best place to land, and he launched himself onward as open mouthed faces began to turn upwards.
A rush of air and he was on the deck, knees flexing as they cushioned the blow. Before him a Briton was snatching up a hand axe from its stowage amidships, and Eofer jabbed out with Gleaming as the hatchet came up. At full stretch the wicked point could do little more than prod the man off balance, but it was enough to wrest the advantage from his opponent. The Briton threw out a hand as he tottered, making a grab for one of ropes which secured the cargo as he twisted back with a snarl; but Eofer was faster, stepping in to close the gap between them as his sword arm came back. An instant later the scowl was driven from the crewman’s face as Gleaming clove the air, Eofer’s blade sweeping across in a rising blow to strike beneath his opponent’s jaw, cutting up and through, crushing bone and paring flesh until it emerged above in a spray of blood. As the axe clattered to the deck at his feet and his victim’s hands moved up to clasp his shattered face Eofer was pivoting, his sword sweeping in an arc before him as he braced to face the next attack.
A quick look told him that Grimwulf had speared another defender in the chest, the youth’s features a twisted snarl as he hoist his yowling victim overboard like a haymaker at harvest time. The man disappeared with a muffled splash as the rest of Eofer’s youth rained down around him from the bridge above, and the eorle raised his eyes to the steering platform of the boat for any signs of resistance as he prepared to fight again.
Beornwulf crashed onto the deck at his side, the youth’s head spinning around as an arm shot out and his mouth opened to call a warning, but before Eofer could swivel to face the unseen threat white light flashed as a powerful blow struck the back of his helm. Knocked forward by the violence of the strike Eofer just had time to tighten his grip on Gleaming, cursing his slackness as his eyes began to lose their focus and he prepared for death.
13
‘Morning precious, how’s the bump?’
Eofer’s eyes flickered and immediately clapped shut again as the light drove hot needles into his brain. He reached up, fumbling with the cords which tied his helm in place as he sought to prise it from his head.
‘You’ll be lucky, lord. It’s jammed as tight as a rat up a pipe.’
Eofer forced himself upright, wincing again as the pain in his head redoubled.
‘Keep yourself still, Eofer,’ Horsa said. ‘That was a nasty crack you took there.’
Eofer’s weorthman reached up and readjusted the awning above him. Feeling the cooling shadow passing across his face, the thegn forced his eyes open a touch. ‘Who killed him?’
Horsa’s eyes narrowed in question, but a moment later his face lit up as he realised the meaning behind his lord’s words. ‘You think that you were attacked from behind!’ Despite Eofer’s discomfort the big duguth was unable to suppress a laugh. He shook his head and snorted. ‘You took a crack to the back of your head when the boat went under the bridge, Eofer. The next time that someone points and shouts duck in the middle of a fight just do it, it would be a good bet that they are not pointing out the nearby waterfowl!’
Eofer sighed. ‘I only had time to see his mouth open and, crunch. It all went dark.’ He ran his gaze across the boat as the importance of the day came back to him. ‘Where are we, why aren’t we moving?’
�
�We have laid up for a bit so that we arrive at this fort at dusk. We will be on the move again soon, don’t worry. Here,’ he said, handing over a clutch of willow stalks. ‘Chew on these, and make sure that you swallow the juice from the leaves. It will help to deaden the pain.’
Eofer took the willow and began to chew. Although it was not as sweet and pleasant tasting as the grass stalks from earlier that day, everyone knew that the sap from the goat willow had magical healing properties. It would help to deaden the pain at least, and, given a little time reduce the swelling which was fixing his battle helm firmly in place.
Horsa jerked his head. ‘Our man at the helm over there had a pot of honey. I have got Grimwulf grinding some of the bark into a powder. I will have him mix it with the honey when he has enough.’ He gave his lord a sympathetic smile. ‘The bark is faster acting than the leaf and more powerful, but it makes a crab apple taste sweet. The honey will take the bitterness away, make it easier to swallow.’
Eofer looked across. Three Britons were sat by the steering oar, their faces betraying their unease at their situation. Eofer thought that they looked about as happy as three mice trapped in a roomful of cats. ‘Can they be trusted?’
Horsa gave a shrug as he replied. ‘I spoke to the owner, the one with the soppy red hat. I gave him the choice between helping us or having his throat cut.’ He flashed a smile. ‘He chose to help us. The other two,’ he added, ‘are his kin. The stocky one, the one who looks like him, is his son you will not be surprised to discover. The beanpole is a cousin or something, his sister’s son I think he said. Two powerful reasons to behave yourself and do as you are told I would say.’
‘Tell me all that I have missed,’ Eofer said as he ran his eye across the crewmen, ‘and what plans you have made.’
‘Well,’ Horsa began, ‘you didn’t miss the fight, that’s for sure. There were only five on board, the three over there and a couple of guards who came down with the goods from Cair Luit Coyt. You and Grimwulf got the guards, you may or may not recall. When the boat finally reappeared on the far side of the bridge and the duguth leapt aboard it was all over. You were laying flat on your face, there was a body missing half of its head in the scuppers and the three lads over there were crowded in the stern seeing which one could hold their hands the highest.’
Eofer stripped the leaves from another twig, mumbling through the mush. ‘The beanpole.’
‘Lord?’
Eofer squeezed the juice from the leaves with his tongue and swallowed. Whatever wizardry the willow contained was already having an effect, and he pushed the soggy mash to one side of his mouth as he expanded on his previous reply. ‘The beanpole. He reached the highest.’
‘Yes, lord,’ Horsa chuckled as he recognised the return of Eofer’s usual good humour. ‘He did.’
‘So what happened next, and why did you spare the crew? We can handle a boat as well as any river trader.’
‘That is pretty much what I asked our new friend Alyn. He spewed something in Welsh at me and I was about to spit him when he hurriedly made his point in good English.’
‘Which was?’
‘Not only are they personally well known to the other river traders who ply the Trenta, but everyone knows the boat too. If its seen with anyone else but Alyn at the helm folk will know that something is wrong, whether they are wearing a ridiculous hat or not.’ Horsa lowered his voice and shot the Britons a look. ‘He’s no fool either, lord, he guessed what we are up to straight away. He says that he is expected and well known at the fort. If the boat appears and he’s not on it they will clam up as tight as a shell, we will never get in.’
‘So, why is he willing to help us. Apart from the obvious fact that he still has a son, nephew and a head on his shoulders?’
‘He was in Lindcylene, the main settlement in the land of the Lindisware.’
‘Where Icel went?’
Horsa nodded. ‘Alyn was there at the same time, there is an old Roman canal which connects the city to the River Trenta. All the talk there is of the great victory which they are going to win against Cynlas Goch this summer in alliance with the men of Anglia. There is no love lost between Powys and the Lindisware, they have fought each other for control of the middle lands for generations. It would seem,’ Horsa said, ‘that our friend shares their optimism. He is a trader whose livelihood depends on the goodwill of the local lord. In short he expects us to win, and he wants to make sure that he grabs this chance to be on the winning side.’
‘How is it coming along?’
Anna looked up from his work, squinting as the sun fell upon his face. ‘Not bad, lord, I will soon have it looking presentable at least. I am using the rounded handle of my knife on the inside as a horn, you know the pointy sticky-out bit on an anvil, and a mallet which I found amidships to tap out the worst of it. My tools are still packed on the horse with the twins. When I get them back I will find a real anvil in one of the settlements and have it looking as good as new. You took a fair old whack from the stone face decorating the keystone and the nose made this big dent,’ he said, running the pad of his finger along the pitted surface at the rear of the helm. His face creased into a smile. ‘It must have been a bit of a shock to get a Gippeswic kiss out here in the middle of nowhere, lord.’
Eofer snorted at the youth’s humour as a clatter of wings drew his gaze across to the reed bed lining the bank. As Anna bent back to his work, Eofer watched as the lanky form of an egret hauled itself into the sky, the white of its plumage flashing a golden bronze in the westering sun. The bird hung suspended as its wings beat the muggy air, and the Engle felt a kick of anxiety as he saw the Christ cross outlined in flames in its form. The egret twisted in the air as it fixed its course, and the luminescence was snuffed out in an instant as it hugged the reed tops and made its way south. The shadows were lengthening by the moment and, raising his eyes once again, he saw the first brand flare into life on the walls of the fort as he realised just how close they were to their goal.
‘Clear this spur and we are into the run in, lord,’ Horsa said as he appeared at his shoulder.
Eofer looked across. ‘Did you see that bird?’
Horsa pulled a lupine smile, already anticipating the fight to come. ‘Sod the birds, they are lighting the torches. A bit early if you ask me.’ He sniffed. ‘Jumpy lot.’
Eofer looked at him in surprise. ‘Hemming used to say that. And that bird, it took the form of a burning cross.’
Horsa looked at his lord and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you taking the auspices, Eofer? I never had you marked down as a rune shaker.’
‘But the flaming cross. It must mean something.’
‘Of course it does,’ the duguth replied patiently. ‘It means that a white bird took off and was lit up by the rays of the setting sun. As for me repeating Thrush’s words, I spent just about every hour with the man for more than a year, it’s hardly a surprise if I picked up a saying or two.’
Eofer was about to speak again but Horsa beat him to it.
‘Don’t worry,’ he chuckled, ‘there is no Christian déofol waiting for us in the fort, and even if there was the gods sent you a sign that you will burn him out. You have seen enough of their churches now, Eofer. How many of them had a wooden cross on the roof or over the door?’
Eofer brightened. ‘All of them.’
Horsa patted him on the shoulder and threw him a wink of encouragement. ‘There you go then.’ He glanced across and the corner of his mouth curled into a cheeky smile. ‘Just how hard did that bridge hit you?’
‘You are right,’ Eofer snorted. ‘It’s been a long and eventful day. Get the lads together and we will go through the plan one last time. Let’s make sure that everyone knows what to expect.’
As his weorthman made his way back along the deck of the boat, Eofer ran his eyes across the dark outline of the Powys’ stronghold a final time. He had seen the place before of course, from the shadow of the southern woodlands, two weeks hence. Then
, the last of the sharpened logs which formed the palisade were being lowered into place along the tops of the bank and ditch of the main defences. The whole looked complete now and, although small, it was an ideal base from which to control the surrounding countryside.
A stand of alder lined the bank casting long shadows across the walls of the fort, and Eofer saw that a start had been made to felling them. Soon the land would be cleared of anything which could interfere with the all-round view of the guards, and the place would become all but unassailable to anything but a powerful army. It had to fall now he knew, déofol or not, or by late summer the place would be impregnable.
His mind drifted away to another such place, an English burh built to perform much the same function, deep within the land which the enemy considered their own. Tamtun had become all that he hoped it would be when he made Thrush Hemming the lord there. Traders in Leircestre had reported that traffic on Watling Street had practically ceased as word spread that the area had become a focus of the wider struggle between the Engles and Powys. His own attacks on the supply columns passing between Cair Luit Coyt and the army of Cynlas Goch spread out along the course of the Trenta had caused the enemy to cut back on their forays along the valleys which led south, adding to the general feeling that the tide was turning and the fates were with the English. Now, with the destruction of a completed fortress, fully manned and supplied, he hoped to sow the seeds of doubt within the core of the army itself.
A muffled cough at his shoulder dragged him back, and Eofer turned to see that his war troop had assembled and were waiting to hear his words. He threw them a smile as Horsa took his place among them.
‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘on the cusp of our attack at last.’ He ran his hand over the back of his head and pulled a wry smile, ‘and all in one piece.’ Horsa’s willow and honey mixture had done the trick and the pain which had blazed behind his eyes like a hearth fire at midwinter had finally all but left him. Woden was the god of witchery, and whatever magic he had used to imbue the tree with its healing properties, he was not the first nor would he be the last to be thankful for the powerful spell-work. Smiles flickered for a heartbeat at their lord’s quip, but fell quickly away as the men prepared their minds for war.