The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Eofer became aware of a figure standing before him, and he blinked away his surprise as he recognised that it was the priest who had been administering prayers to the Christians in the army. As many as one in ten of the men who had left their ploughs and scythes to follow the ætheling to the banks of the Trenta were British Christians, the descendants of the folk who had lived hereabouts when the legions of Rome were little more than a rumour of terrible deeds done in far off Gaul. The man chuckled as he recognised the bemusement on the Engle’s face. ‘Can I offer to say a prayer for your soul, lord?’ he chirped happily. ‘And those of your men who will allow it?’

  Eofer’s hand went to his throat as he instinctively reached for his gods-luck charm before he remembered that he had gifted it to an ex thræl, back in Engeln. He had been part of a party who had attempted to block their path on the way to the ship, but they had parted on good terms nonetheless and Eofer snorted as the big man’s parting words came to him on the wind and wondered for a moment how he fared: I am Wulf shield breaker of the Long Beards, a free man.

  The Christ priest held his smile as Horsa laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in, licking his fingertip and running it along the blood smeared blade of his spear. ‘Only if you want me to make you another arsehole,’ he said with a sneer. He jerked his head. ‘Go on piss off, while I am in a good mood.’

  The priest looked at Eofer for confirmation, and the thegn rolled his eyes. ‘I would do as he says if I were you,’ he said. ‘I have seen him gut a priest before, it looked painful.’

  A war horn blared at the foot of the field, and Eofer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I should go and see to your own flock. It looks as though they will be busy again soon.’ The Christian smiled happily as he moved away. ‘Don’t forget, lord,’ he threw across in parting. ‘If you call me, I will come.’

  Horsa brandished his spear and made a point of twisting the blade to catch the sun. The priest was unconcerned, and he gave a parting wave as he called back. ‘You are welcome too, my son. There is a place for all in God’s kingdom, even for priests with two arseholes!’ The duguth shook his head and grimaced. ‘What is it with these people? Always happy, always smiling. They just never give up.’

  ‘You would be happy too if you lived off of other folk’s hard work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The tithe of course,’ Eofer said.

  Horsa gave him a blank look and Eofer explained. ‘The tithe is the payment that all Christians make to free the priests from doing actual work to support themselves, so that they can go off preaching what they call the gōspell, the good news, the glad tidings.’

  Horsa pulled a face. ‘So, every Christian hands over a tenth of everything they produce, as well as the scot owed to their lord? You are right, no wonder that they are always so cheerful, if he stops again next time he comes past he is definitely getting a second arsehole!’

  The horn sounded again and the Engles bent to pick up their shields. Slipping weary hands into handles they hefted the great boards and stared down the slope. Most men were on their second shield by now, the first little more than an iron boss with a fringe of shattered wood, littering the grass to the rear of the spear hedge like a field of fallen stars. Moving fast and without wagons, the spearmen had had to carry the heavy boards slung over each shoulder all the way from Leircestre to the battlefield. It had been hard going, but only a fool or a man who had yet to feel the very air move as a spear blade whistled past his cheek begrudged carrying as many of the linden boards as he was able.

  Eofer watched as British heads came forward, the sign that they were leaning in as they felt the ground rise beneath their feet, and he gave the cutting edge of his spear blade a final sweep for luck with the sharpening stone before popping it into the purse at his side.

  The chant got up from the English ranks again as their foemen approached, Ut...Ut...Ut..., and Eofer clashed the heel of his own ash shaft onto the lime-wood boards as he thrilled again to the moment.

  The Welshmen had learned their lesson after the first attack in the rain-lashed daybreak, and despite the fact that the bear shirts were a spent force, they knew now the quality of the host arrayed along the lip of the rise and they took their time, girding their courage as they prepared for another hard fight. The wolf brother, Blódulf, had been the only one of his kind to survive the first fight; the others had been either killed outright in the fighting or succumbed soon after to their wounds and were already sinking ale and mead with Woden beneath his roof of golden shields in Valhall, regaling their own ancestors and all that would listen to the tale of their death-fight.

  Miraculously Blódulf has survived the fight without a scratch, and Icel had recognised the hand of Tiw the war god in it and drawn the man back to recover from his exertions. The bear shirt had been a weakling for most of the morning, like all of his kind as helpless as a bairn once the fury had left him, and Icel had left him in the care of the stag priest as the shield wall had thrown back attack after attack. Under the guda’s care his strength had slowly returned, and the ætheling had honoured him with the position of ordman in his own personal gesith, the very point of the boar snout which would sweep down and smash their way through the ranks of Welshmen, beat the red dragon banner of Powys down into the dust and snatch the victory when the moment came.

  The attacks had left the grass before the English shield wall strewn with bodies, the full horror of what the scops and bards variously called the press of shields, the dance of spears: wæpenþracu the weapon-storm.

  It was already mid morning, the stormy skies a memory as the sun shone steadily to the south: surely the Lindisware must be past the hill fort by now?

  The rhythmic chanting trailed away as men concentrated all their energies on survival and Eofer knew that the Welsh were near. He looked up. A line of boards before him, steel helms glinting in the light, spears held ready to stab down into heads and necks: banners streaming, the light airs mewing through the gaping mouth of the red dragon men called draco. He shifted his feet and raised his own gar, moving his grip along the shaft of the heavy spear until he found the point of perfect balance and looked ahead. His opponent was obvious now, snake-eyes glaring over the rim of his board, and Eofer willed the final yards away as the Britons tramped on.

  Ready!

  A moment later the lines crashed together, men howling, grunting with effort as they threw their shoulders into their boards and spear shafts crisscrossed the air above.

  Snake-eyes was pushing for all his worth, but Eofer was no downy chinned boy and he knew this work as well as any man alive. He gave ground, an inch, maybe two, but he knew that it would be enough to send the thrill of success coursing through his opponent, and he readied his counterstrike for the moment which he knew was a whisker away.

  There!

  The pressure came off for a heartbeat as the Welshman adjusted his footing, ready to drive forward again and punch through the English line. He would be the first to break out into the clear space behind the enemy shield wall after a day of toil and bloodshed, in his mind the voices of the bards were already singing his praises when the first stab came. Another, then another, and the Briton’s mind screamed in disbelief as the strength deserted the limb and he began to fall. His face was in the mud, the grass before his eyes a woodland as cold steel worked its way between helm and mail, and an image of Rhodri came as he waited for the end. The boy was stood atop the barn, waving proudly as his da went to drive the Saesneg back into the sea, and he felt the pain of their parting more than Beornwulf’s downward spear thrust which sent his soul to Christ.

  Eofer stepped across the prone figure of snake-eyes and jabbed his gar low. The Briton there still had the look of surprise painted on his face as he came to realise that the man before him had fallen, and he desperately attempted to alter his stance before the killers facing him could strike him down. He saw the stab and instinct took over. His shield dropped, and he dragged his spear down to deflect the blo
w as he sought to steady the line, but Eofer’s spear thrust had been a feint, and the eorle twisted aside as eager hands reached past to drag him into their ranks. Before the Briton could react his shield had been forced aside, and the first blade plunged into his guts as the Engles in the rear tossed the lad between them, baying with joy as they tore him apart like a fox caught by hounds.

  Another face reared up, a red beard and the gap-toothed rictus of a snarl, and Eofer shouldered him back, watching dispassionately as his gar slid into the white of the Briton’s throat. Suddenly the pressure eased as the Welsh took a pace back, and both lines instinctively dressed themselves, clattering shields together as they gulped down air and blinked the sweat from their eyes. Engle and Briton alike panted like dogs in the hot sun until without any visible signal they crashed forward again, stabbing and shoving across the blood-slick grass.

  The Welsh began to give: Eofer felt a quiver pass along the enemy line as the heart went out from the push, and he stabbed his gar into the shoulder of a man and left it hanging there as his hand moved across the draw Gleaming. The Britons too sensed that the attack had failed, and they began to hang back and glance rearwards as swords hissed from scabbards all along the English line.

  Eofer drove forward, Gleaming chopping down at heads and necks as Horsa and Osbeorn held their places at his side. He saw the look of indecision on the face of the man nearest to him as the Briton frantically sought a way out from the carnage, but there was no way forward and the way to the rear was blocked by men as desperate as he. Osbeorn’s blade cut the air, and Eofer felt his first moment of pity that day as he watched the man scream and twist away.

  The spearmen of Powys were beaten again, and Eofer pulled up at the lip of the slope and cried out above the battle-din.

  Hold!

  The men of his hearth troop clustered about their eorle as Grimwulf brought the burning hart banner and planted it at his side. Earlier in the day when the enemy had been driven away in disorder, the slope had resounded to the thunderous roar of a victorious war host but those joyous moments were in the past. Men looked on hollow cheeked, their eyes red rimmed and sunken as the Welsh streamed away.

  A boy appeared at his elbow, and Eofer indicated that he first take the water skins to his youth with a smile and a pat as any good leader would. His eyes ran across the slope before him as he waited for the others to slake their thirst. His duguth were still at his side, Horsa, Osbeorn, Octa and Finn and he took comfort in their presence as they watched the Welsh leaders rant and rave at their oft defeated host. The numbers at the foot of the hill were visibly fewer than they had been at the start of the day and, although the enemy still had numbers on their side, Eofer felt confident now that the Mercians had the beating of them. Hundreds of Powys’ lay like bloody rags across the face of the hill, the sad bundles growing steadily in number until they fetched up as a grim tideline just feet away from the place where the English still stood shoulder to shoulder.

  The skins reached the frontline and eager hands reached out to take them. Eofer tipped back his head, sighing with pleasure as the lukewarm liquid made his senses come alive. Osbeorn was the first to quench his thirst, and the others shared a smile and a laugh as he put their feelings into words. ‘You know,’ he sniffed, as the boy collected the empty canteens and scurried away to refill them at the river. ‘As much as I like ale and mead, you can’t beat a mouthful of water when you are really thirsty.’

  As the harsh laughter died away, Horsa’s anguished gasp caused Eofer’s heart to come into his mouth. The big man was as steady as an oak, but the despair in his voice was clear and Eofer followed his gaze with trepidation as he turned back to the east. A column of heavily armoured horsemen were thundering along the woodland fringe, heading straight for the place where the ætheling’s war banner snapped in the breeze. All along the English line fear-filled faces betrayed the same thought. While they had been fighting here, a second British force had either returned from raiding English lands or had been sent downriver with orders to attack their rear. In short they had been outflanked: despite their bravery the day was lost.

  Horsa was already bellowing commands at the youth, turning them to face rearwards as others did likewise up and down the line. ‘Remember,’ he was saying, as the shields came together with a crack, ‘we have faced down horsemen already today. We shall do so again.’

  His weorthman’s quick thinking had freed him from the responsibility of organising the defence, and Eofer used the opportunity to look towards Icel and his gesith on their grassy mound. The concern which he saw there was real, but there was something else, something which he could not yet grasp. And then he had it, the gesith were still facing his way, and although worry was etched onto the ætheling’s features it was clear that the approaching horsemen were known to him. As he watched the leading rider raised a hand to slow the group a hundred paces from Icel and Eofer called out to the men within earshot; ‘turn back to face downhill lads, they are on our side. Haystack will send word if there is anything we need to know.’

  As men began to lower their shields all along the rear, Eofer checked the enemy for any sign of a reaction to this new development. The Powys’ leaders were attempting to marshal their spearmen for another attack but it was obvious that their war-lust was beginning to wane, and men were making their feelings known as they saw the enemy strengthen.

  ‘I can imagine how they feel,’ Octa spoke at his side. ‘The attacks have hardly been battle-cunning. Trudge up the slope and batter at the shield wall until the horsemen can sweep through any gaps and claim the victory.’

  Eofer looked again. Men were pointing their spears at the reserve, still in place on the knoll beneath their war banner, and he wondered if he may yet have to fight the giant Saxon. They were one of the strongest groups on the field, and he could imagine the anger of the men of Powys that their leaders were attempting to purchase the victory with their lives while the barbarians supped ale and enjoyed the show.

  Horsa touched his arm and indicated to the rear with a flick of his head. A boy was hastening across from Icel’s position, heading straight for his troop, and Eofer bent to wrest his spear from the back of its last victim. ‘Here,’ he said, handing the gar across to the youth Crawa. ‘Clean this up and restore the edge while I am with the ætheling.’ Crawa took the spear as Eofer made his way back through the ranks of his men, and he was ready and waiting when the lad arrived. Now that the fury of the fighting had abated he realised just how uncomfortably hot the day had become as the sun rose higher, and he raised his chin to loosen the ties which were beginning to chafe at his neck. Prising his grim-helm from his head, he ran a hand through the sweatiness in his hair as the boy padded up.

  ‘Icel Ætheling asks that you attend him, lord.’

  He nodded as the messenger hurried off to summon the other thegns, nestling the helm into the crook of his arm as he made his way across. The horsemen had dismounted, the stallions pulling at the lush grass near the tree line as their leader conversed with Icel. Eofer could see that his lord was teasing his beard into a knot as he approached the pair. It was as sure a sign as any that he was thinking deeply on a problem, and he increased his pace despite his weariness following the night march and heavy fighting that morning.

  The ætheling glanced up as he arrived before them, pulling a weary smile as he made the introductions. ‘Cueldgils, this is Eofer Wonreding, king’s bane. Cueldgils is the son of the Lindisware ruler Creoda, Eofer,’ he explained. ‘Come to bring us weighty news.’

  Cueldgils gave Eofer a curt nod. ‘We are not so isolated that we have not heard of the exploits of Eofer, king’s bane,’ he said. ‘It will be an honour to fight at your side.’

  Eofer looked from one to the other. ‘We were expecting more of you, Cueldgils.’

  ‘Sawyl Penuchel of The Peaks has broken our agreement,’ Icel interrupted with a frown. ‘As an ally I Informed him of our plans to attack, but he has taken the opportunity to make a grab for
the lands of the Lindisware. Luckily he misjudged the timing of his stab in the back, and Creoda’s horsemen had yet to leave to link up with us. Cueldgils has brought fifty of the best, but that is all that can be spared for now. We shall have to make do.’

  Eofer nodded. It had not escaped his notice that Icel had spoken over Cueldgils as the Lindisware had made to reply to his direct question. If the son of the leader, whether Creoda styled himself a king or not, obviously deferred to Icel who was merely an ætheling after all, it was true what Haystack had said to Eofer back in Leircestre. Eofer decided that he would not call the man lord after all: after an absence of almost a century, it seemed that the Engles of Lindcylene really were back in the fold.

  The other thegns were coming up from their positions in the shield wall in answer to Icel’s summons, and Eofer turned to cast his eyes over the enemy as he saw for the first time the commanding view of the battlefield from the knoll. It appeared that the enemy spearmen had been persuaded to mount another attempt on the Engles after all. Seaxwulf still held his position on the mound opposite, but the horse Welsh were back in their saddles, walking the war horses towards the southern flank where the wooded spur jutted into the field.

  Lost in his thoughts Eofer jumped as Cueldgils spoke at his shoulder, and the pair shared a laugh as Icel greeted the others. ‘You have had a busy morning, Eofer,’ the man said.

  Eofer’s mind went back to other fights, battles in foreign lands: Frankish meadow, Danish Ridgeline, Jutish river crossing: Ravenswood where he had earned his eke-name, king’s bane. ‘I have been busier,’ he replied with a shrug.