by C. R. May
‘Well,’ Eofer smiled, ‘unknown man from an unnamed place. The Britons have been strengthened and the ætheling thinks that they are preparing to attack the settlements around Leircestre, maybe even the city itself. We think that Cynlas Goch and his Powys are looking to destroy all our settlements in the Leir Valley, maybe even as far as Brunes Wald, before the winter sets in. The gods have seen fit to place an English army here, now, at the right place and time to put a stop to their schemes.’ Eofer paused and looked about him. All the men within earshot were climbing to their feet, moving his way as they listened to what they now knew would be a pre battle speech. He reached out, taking the man’s outstretched hand in his own and hauled him upright. ‘What is your name, friend?’
‘Swithin, lord,’ the ceorl answered proudly.
‘And you honour the gods, Swithin?’
‘Yes, lord. I am a smallholder, farming is my lot in life, Thunor my god. We sacrifice the odd lamb to old copper knob each spring and he sends us rains and sun in the right amount to grow our crops.’ He pulled a crooked smile and cast a look around him. ‘Ain’t that right lads?’ A chorus of voices assured him that, not only was he far from alone in his devotion, they all shared his high opinion of the thunderer.
Eofer smiled, relieved at the good humour on display. Despite their tiredness it seemed that there was still plenty of fight left in the men. ‘Well,’ he said, sweeping them all with a look. ‘Picture your lands, your families. Foreign men think to take those lands and call them their own. Enslave those families, yours and mine.’ He shot them a grin. ‘Let us send them home to think again.’
Eofer was pleased to hear his speech greeted, not by acclamation, but by murmurs of agreement and a steely resolve. It was just the response he had hoped to hear when he began to address them, and he clapped Swithin on the shoulder and wished him gods-luck as he moved on.
All about the moon-washed bowl men were climbing to their feet, gathering up weapons and shouldering shields as movement at the gate drew Eofer’s attention. Horsemen were entering Bruidon, and Eofer walked across as Icel’s gesith returned from their sweep to the north.
Haystack was moving across to hear their report before breaking the unwelcome news that they were about to go out again, despite the fact that they had already been in the saddle since sundown the day before. Eofer was pleased to see that Icel was not beyond carrying food and ale to the men, men who would have little enough time to take it before they rode to war.
The leading rider slipped from his saddle, and Eofer was about to move on when he noticed that the man was pointing his way. Icel turned and beckoned the thegn across with a sweep of his hand, and Eofer was almost up with the group when he saw the reason for the summons. The relief on Cynfelyn’s face was obvious when the Briton saw him coming through the crowd, and Eofer exchanged a brief nod of recognition as he turned to Icel. ‘I can vouch for him, this is Ioan’s man, Cynfelyn,’ he explained. ‘The man who led us to Bruidon the first time.’
‘We found him on the road, lord,’ the gesith explained. ‘He said that he was taking important news to you at Leircestre so I brought him here to find out the truth of it.’ The gesith looked at Icel, and Eofer saw the ætheling give a nod that all was well. ‘Here,’ he said, handing across a bag of bread and bacon to the horseman. ‘Share these out and I will be along in a moment to tell you about the change in our plans.’
Eofer could see that Cynfelyn was itching to speak. Looking back Icel noticed too, and he offered the Welshman a drink from his own ale skin as he nodded that he should begin. Cynfelyn took a quick swig and launched into the reason for his sudden appearance. ‘Cynlas Goch’s army has been strengthened in the last few days,’ he said. ‘Ninety warriors arrived yesterday, and there is a rumour that more will be arriving soon.’ The Briton took another swig of ale and handed the skin back with a grateful nod. His eyes flicked from thegn to ætheling and back again as he waited for his sensational news to draw a comment from the Englishmen. When neither man reacted as he had expected, Cynfelyn tried again. ‘Ioan discovered that they are building up their forces in order to launch an attack on Leircestre very soon. He sent me to warn you so that you would not be surprised by their numbers if you still intended to make an attack of your own.’
‘We heard that it was a hundred,’
‘Lord?’
‘We heard that a hundred fresh riders arrived at the fort,’ Icel repeated.
Cynfelyn looked bemused. ‘Where did you hear that lord?’
The English leaders shared a smile. ‘We have our own eyes and ears along the valley of the Trenta and elsewhere. However,’ the ætheling added, ‘your coming here with that information does reinforce Eofer’s opinion that you are trustworthy, that you would risk your lives to bring us warning. Where is Ioan now?’
‘Heading west, lord, with the rest of the boys. If he had gone east he would have aroused suspicion, so he going to double back when he reaches the River Mease and meet me back in The Tewdwr.’
Eofer noticed Icel’s brows knit together at the mention of the unfamiliar name and supplied the answer. ‘It’s that ramshackle drinking and whoring den, lord. Down by the eastern gate.’
Icel cocked his head. ‘They went west, but you were able to amble over this way without attracting attention?’
Cynfelyn pulled a roguish smile. ‘I have been leaving at sunset off and on for a week or so,’ he said. ‘I told the guards that I have a woman further up the valley. Ioan and I have been supplying them with ale to turn a blind eye. After a while it just became normal to them and I came and went as I pleased.’
Icel nodded, obviously impressed at their forethought. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you know the area well. We are attacking the fort from the south, coming down the valley of the watercourse that my men call Hreopedun Brook. How long would you say it will take an army on foot to get there?’
The Welshman looked horrified at the suggestion. ‘You can’t go that way, lord,’ he blurted. ‘Even if there are no night riders out, the guards on the walls will see you coming a mile away on a night like this.’
They all glanced up instinctively. The clouds were thickening. Lower clouds, more rounded than the fish scales high above were rolling in from the west, their bulbous faces shining white in the moonlight like the shields of an advancing army.
‘If that is so, where would you suggest that we attack?’
Eofer was struggling to keep a straight face as the ætheling probed and questioned. They had discussed the path which the army would take as it approached the Powys’ fort at the place the English settlers had named Hreopedun, Hreopa’s farm, days before, in council back at Leircestre. Local men who had fled the depredations of the Britons had told them of another way, a small track, overgrown from lack of use, known only to those with need to penetrate the deeper parts of the woodland. Like as not it was still unknown to Cynlas Goch’s men at the fort, but even if they had stumbled upon or discovered its existence some other way, it would seem unthinkable that an army should force its way through when there were faster and easier routes on at least three sides. Eofer’s mind came back from his thoughts, and he listened in as Cynfelyn unwittingly confirmed his trustworthiness and possibly kept his head upon his shoulders with a simple statement.
‘There is a pathway which leads north from here, lord,’ he was saying. ‘It’s only three miles or so in length and it brings you out by the road which follows the southern bank of the Trenta. It’s a bit small, but I have travelled the length of it and an army like yours, unencumbered by wagons and the like will force a way through, no problem.’
Icel nodded. ‘Will you show us the way?’
‘Yes, lord.’ He pulled a face and a smile finally crept onto Eofer’s face as he realised what was coming next. ‘I am not a fighting man though,’ Cynfelyn was saying. ‘I can scout and drive horses but a spearman I am not.’
‘Don’t forget your spear, Cynfelyn.’
The little group shared a chuckle as B
eornwulf’s smile widened. ‘Remember,’ he added. ‘The pointy bit really hurts, so keep it facing towards the enemy.’
Cynfelyn clucked his tongue, and Eofer shared a look of mirth with Einar as they watched the tough Welshman wrestle with his rising temper. His aversion to spear work was through choice the English thegn was sure, not lack of practice or ability. Unlike most men, blinded by tales of honour and the slim chance of making more wealth in a day than they could wrest from the ground in a lifetime of hard work, the Briton had long ago realised that he would live longer and better using his wits than as part of the herd. He intervened before either man could say another word.
‘How far is it from here?’
Cynfelyn shot the youth a sour look before softening his features as he turned. ‘Half a mile lord, I don’t want to risk the horses any closer than this, they are liable to whinny at any time, especially if they get wind of the horses at the fort. It will be the ideal place to picket them when the rest of the army arrive too.’ He ran his finger along the wooded outlier ahead. ‘The trees there will hide the horses and deaden any sound that they make before the attack if the ætheling still intends to surprise them. There is a small bridge across the brook up ahead. It’s usually left unguarded as close as it is to the encampment, but I noticed spearmen there when I left earlier.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess with all the preparations for their own attack, they are not taking any chances.’
‘Right,’ Eofer said. ‘The quicker that we can spy out the way ahead, the quicker we can get the army back on the move.’ He looked at the youth. ‘Beornwulf.’
‘Yes, lord?’
‘We will be back as soon as we can. The night is drawing on and the ætheling wants us to be in position before sunup.’ He pinned the lad with a stare to emphasise the words which followed. ‘If you hear lots of noise coming from the west, you know what to do.’
Beornwulf nodded. ‘Yes, lord. Leave you to your fate and warn Haystack that you have been discovered.’
‘Whatever you do, don’t be tempted to come to our aid. If we fall, we fall. If the army is discovered before they are in a position to defend themselves the whole of Mercia falls.’
The youth nodded again, grim faced. ‘I understand, lord. You can count on me.’
Eofer smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘I know that I can, otherwise you would not be here. Keep alert and we will be back before you know it.’
Cynfelin and Einar had already moved off and were waiting for Eofer in the shadow of the tree line. He jogged across and joined them as Beornwulf attempted to melt into the background as well as a man and four war horses could. Eofer flashed them a grin. ‘Let’s get going.’
The three men set off at a steady pace, skirting the edge of the woodland as it curved to the north, mirroring a great meander in the river’s course. Eofer glanced upwards as they walked. The moon was still visible, a silver nail head driven into the blackness of the night sky, but the mackerel sky of earlier had all but cleared away to the north-east and the billowing mass of greyness was almost upon them. He inhaled as he moved, gulping down the damp air of the water meadow as his mind sifted the smells. Old ginger had been right he decided, the smells of woodland and pasture did become stronger as a storm front approached, and he wondered at the fact that he had never noticed before.
‘Your boy is a laugh,’ Cynfelyn whispered.
Eofer shook his head in reply. ‘He is still young, a wound or two will drive the mirth from him.’
‘It could be arranged. I thought for a moment he was going to start the old, “there was an Englishman, a Welshman and a Geat,” joke.’
Eofer narrowed his eyes, and the Briton snorted softly. ‘It’s a type of joke we have at home. Remind me later and will tell you a few.’ Eofer made to question him again, but froze as Einar halted suddenly and held out a hand. The eorle stood stock-still, quartering the shadows as the Geat began to tease the nearest branches apart. Finally he turned back and indicated that they take to the trees with a movement of his head. In a heartbeat he had been swallowed by the darkness, and moments later Eofer had followed Cynfelyn in. The light from above was just enough to allow the thegn to make out that Einar’s fieldcraft had uncovered a path made by an animal of some sort, a badger or fox it looked like, and the rounded tunnel although low to the ground, offered ideal cover and a more direct route to Hreopedun itself. Eofer ran on, doubled up as he attempted to keep the shaft of his spear free from the branches and trunks which pressed about on all sides.
The Romans of course would have driven the main road straight through the trees, clearing a pathway without a moment‘s hesitation. But the track which hugged the southern bank was British, no doubt ancient when the legions first arrived, almost as much a part of the land as the people were themselves. Eofer reflected on the difference as he ran. It was such a small thing, the course of a road, but the contrast which it showed in the mindset of the two people was stark. Up ahead his companions had reached the far side of the woodland spur and the trio crouched low, fanning out as they inched carefully forward. Eofer ran his eyes across the ground before him and, satisfied that he was still within the deep dark of the woodland interior, he raised his gaze to look across the site of Hreopedun for the first time.
The fort itself was little more than four walls of banked earth with a shallow ditch before them. As he had hoped and expected no wooden palisade lined the crests and no central tower rose into the air, and he allowed himself a feeling of pride as he saw just how successful his earlier attack on the fort-let upriver had been. Unworked logs were stacked to one side, awaiting the attention of the woodworkers’ axe, adze and draw-knife, but the men themselves lay in their graves little more than three miles distant, the tools of their trade either thrown into the waters of the Trenta or twisted and bent by the heat of the fires they had set as they left.
Between their own position and the fort, Hreopedun Brook came down from the southern valley, wound its way across the floodplain and became lost from sight in a fringe of reeds. Halfway between the the Trenta and the woodland edge to the south, the track followed a terrace of higher ground before dipping down to cross the brook by way of the bridge which Cynfelyn had mentioned back at the horses. The original plan had called for him to ride ahead of the army, storm the bridge, and deny passage to the Powys’ until Icel could bring up the army and deploy it for the fight. Now that he was here in person he could tell at a glance that Cynfelyn had been right: the banks either side were little more than gentle slopes, minor obstacles to men on foot. Horses would barely break their stride as they swept around either side to engulf the plucky band on the bridge long before any help could arrive.
A small brazier burned on the western bank, and Eofer watched a pair of warriors saunter to and fro as they wished away their watch. The thegn quickly ran his eyes along the skyline to the south. Twin hills bestrode the brook, both heavily wooded, and switching his gaze back to the west he noticed to his disappointment that despite the dryness of the previous month the grassland there looked bare, pitted and rutted by the passage of Cynlas Goch’s horsemen. The clouds above had grown darker still in the time it had taken them to reach the fort, the dove grey wall now a duskier hue marbled white as old red beard approached, and he sent a small invocation to the god that he rein in his goats, slow the approach of his sky cart until the armies came to grips.
Cynfelyn sidled across and touched his sleeve. ‘Seen enough, lord?’
Eofer nodded. ‘Yes, let’s get back.’
20
Het þa hyssa hwæne hors forlætan, feor afysan and forð gangan-
He then bade each of the warriors to let go of his horse, to drive it far off and march forwards-
The words of the poem flitted through his mind like a bat in the night and were gone.
‘Quiet now,’ Eofer breathed. ‘Hold your line.’
The pre dawn darkness would help to hide them from Powys’ eyes, but it did little for formation keeping. Men looked t
o left and right, searching out the faintest glimmer as they pivoted about Icel’s position at the centre of the road. Somewhere far away in the great woodlands to the south a wolf’s doleful cry haunted the night air.
Eofer cast a look to his left. The crown of the first hill rose above the valley floor, the great humped back of an ocean-going whale breaking the surface before it plunged back to the depths. Any moment now the line would come to a halt at the pinch point where the lower slopes petered out a quarter of a mile short of the Trenta.
Above them boiled a witches brew, the earlier moonlight a memory as the rising wind drove the clouds eastwards.
Osbeorn at his side was munching on something, the sound loud in the oppressive silence which hung over the valley. Eofer shot him a look, but the beatific smile which greeted what he had intended to be an admonishing stare drove it away, and he flashed his teeth in a grin at the happy face of his long-time friend and companion. Horsa was tucked in on his right hand side where any weorthman should be, and he took comfort from the press of the man’s great shoulders against his own as they walked towards the enemy.
The men in the front rank came to a halt as the stop point was reached, the English line ebbing and flowing, forwards and backwards like a silvery tide on the cusp of the turn as men adjusted their position in the gloom.
Eofer allowed himself a brief flicker of joy that they had reached the place of battle undetected. Not too far ahead he knew that the first of many men to die that day had already made their way to their Christian God, to sit at His feet and bask in His glory, and he wondered again that tough fighting men should seek such an eternity. The bodies of the men guarding the bridge would already be growing cold as Icel’s men wiped the blood from their blades, and he shook his head again at the absurdity of this place called Heaven. Even a single day there would seem as a lifetime to a man of war.