by C. R. May
‘Well, take refreshment while you can my friend,’ Cueldgils replied with a look. ‘I already know what Icel has in mind. You are about to get busier still.’
23
Eofer’s eyes darted from left to right as he drained the ale skin and held out his hand for another. He had always hated being away from the front ranks in any fight and he pulled the stopper with his teeth as he watched a latticework of spear shafts jab above the heads before him. He felt a dig in the ribs and turned to find Osbeorn’s grinning face inches from his own. ‘Gissa slurp.’
The thegn returned the smile as he handed the skin across. ‘Pass it around, Ozzy,’ he said. ‘Before I drain the lot and find that I need to piss at just the wrong moment.’
The duguth took a swig and passed it back to eager hands. ‘That’s better,’ he sighed. ‘I can't wait to get hold of some of that Welsh ale though, lord.’ He winked. ‘It won’t be long now.’
The short conversation had taken his mind off the waiting, and Eofer dipped his head at his duguth in acknowledgement of his thoughtfulness. The Christian priest from earlier hurried past, his arms red to the elbows, and he saw the tiredness in his eyes as they exchanged a look and felt a newfound respect for the man. Tithe or not, he was doing the work of God and man alike as he tended the injured irrespective of whether they bent their knee at a Iesus altar or wooded grove. He had seen him around Leircestre and Eofer decided to seek him out when he became ealdorman and find him a suitable place to tend his flock.
The sky above was clear now, all the god-driven frenzy in the dawn driven beyond the horizon. The treetops swayed in gentle autumnal airs, and he took a deep breath and sucked his teeth as the sounds of fighting began to trail away. The men were beginning to fidget behind him as the time approached, nervous laughter rolling around the group as Osbeorn farted and grabbed a last chance to piss into the grass.
Better out than in boys!
A stamp of his feet and a flex of his toes to get the blood moving again and Eofer reached forward, placed a hand on Grimwulf’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. ‘Ready?’ The youth nodded without looking back as the latest Welsh attack began to falter. ‘Right, get back behind me with your mates. Keep that banner high, let them know how much trouble they are in.’
A quick look to his left to check that all was well and Icel caught his eye and flashed him a grin and the thumbs up. Eofer laughed and shook his head in wonder at his lord’s mettle as he ran his eyes across the ætheling’s formation for what seemed like the hundredth time. Blódulf, the last bear shirt still standing was there in the place of honour, ordman, snorting like a bull at the very point of the boar snout. Icel’s gesith, his own household warriors, the best of the best, were arrayed in wedge formation behind the mad giant with the ætheling himself standing proudly beneath his own black raven war banner and the white dragon of Anglia. Behind them Cueldgils and his men were standing alongside their horses, holding the reins as they prepared for the moment they would leap into the saddle and play their part in the counterattack.
The men of Eofer’s war band were set in their own wedge, arrowing back in his wake as he prepared for the signal. Despite the fact that he knew that it was coming Eofer still jumped when it did, and the English ranks began to draw aside before him as the double note shrilled from the prince’s hunting horn to fill the vale.
The moment the gap in the wall appeared Eofer broke into a run, shield held before him ready to batter his way through the retreating fiend. A wave of noise engulfed him, Ut…Ut…Ut..., and he was through, leaping war’s grim tideline and angling off across the slope. The first of the beaten army were before him, jogging back to the foot of the rise as they had so many times that morning, but the first faces began to turn towards him in shock as he raised Gleaming and pounded across.
A tall man in a brightly patterned cloak was the first to fall, Gleaming sweeping in to take the top of his head clean off as he turned to face the threat. A man was bent double, struggling to help a bloodied friend back to safety, but Eofer’s sword took his head before he was even aware of the new threat. Knots of Britons were beginning to rally, turning back to face the danger as Eofer led his hearth troop on, but they were too slow, caught in two minds between flight and fight as the English eorle put his shoulder into the back of his shield and smashed into them. Welshmen were sent flying, and Eofer drove forward as he sought to keep the momentum of the charge from faltering. Raising his gaze for a heartbeat he snatched a look towards the earthen walls which were his goal and was disappointed to see men beginning to appear there. He had hoped that the fort had been left empty but few plans, however well thought out, survived contact with the enemy and he lowered his head once again and powered on.
The men ahead of him were wavering and Eofer raised Gleaming once more, hacking at heads and shoulders again and again as he sought to drive them from the field. A spear darted in from the right but Horsa was there, and the spearman reeled away as the weorthman’s own sword bit deeply into his shoulder. A face appeared above a shield but Eofer was faster, and he watched as the point of his blade jabbed forward to shatter teeth and bones as the man was driven back.
A space opened up before him and Eofer ran on as the rush lined banks of Hreopedun Brook came close. The lack of opposition gave him the chance to flick a look to the left, and his heart leapt as he saw that Icel’s attack was sweeping all before it. The raven banner was cascading down the slope, the gesith a silver dagger aimed straight at the blood red Draco of Powys as war horns blared all along the English line and the rest of the army swept down in their wake. Beyond them Cueldgils and his Lindisware were holding Cynlas Goch’s horse Welsh at bay as they fought to come to the aid of their leader, and a quick look across the brook told him that Seaxwulf, the Saxon warlord, had been true to his oath. The summer had passed since their first meeting beside the old tree at the hill fort, and although the Briton, Ioan, had carried messages back and forth between them, it was only really at this moment, seeing the war host standing fast on the hill as the battle hung in the balance that he could be sure that he had turned the man.
Their headlong drive had carried them to the lip of the brook, and Eofer splashed into the shallows in an arc of spray as all opposition melted away before them. This was the moment he had been dreading, ever since the plan had been outlined to him by Icel. The earlier storm had visibly added to the volume of water making its way down to the Trenta from the hills to the south, and he sent a prayer to the gods that the waters were not too deep to cross. Weighed down by his mail and impeded by his weapons anything but a quick and trouble free fording of the brook would cost him his life, either through drowning or at the point of a well aimed arrow or spear.
The water rose past his waist, and Eofer raised his shield and sword high as he forged ahead. Osbeorn and Octa moved forward to his left, shielding the thegn from the worst of the current, and he searched the far bank as his feet began to trend upwards out of the slime. The brookside was clear of spearmen but he fought down the disappointment as he saw that a line of shields, garishly quartered behind rims and bosses of cold harsh steel, now lined the wall of the fort with a war hedge of spearpoints glimmering like hoar frost on hawthorn above them.
Eofer emerged from the brook and climbed the bank, stamping the water from trews and boots as his hearth men scrambled up behind him. He walked forward a half dozen paces as his eyes scanned the defences ahead, searching for the place to strike. Despite the fact that the earthen wall had been faced with turf, the earlier rainstorm seemed to have found a weak point and a small dip had formed immediately opposite where he had emerged from the waters. The enemy had seen the weakness too, doubling up the numbers there the moment that they realised that they were about to come under attack, and Eofer moved forward to seize the opportunity it presented.
Horsa and Osbeorn were back at each shoulder, and Eofer knew that they had to move fast if they were to stand any chance of taking the wall in the first rush. If Cynlas Goch
and his Powys’ could regain the safety of the fort, they would very likely hold the English at bay for as long as it took for the reinforcements that Cynfelyn had mentioned back at Bruidon to arrive. Their horsemen still controlled the lands about Ryknield Street, and now the attack by the men of The Peaks on the Lindisware had opened up the real possibility that they had thrown in their lot with Powys after all. If that had occurred the Mercians were facing a powerful coalition, so they had to strike the head from the beast now, while the ruler of Powys was under their swords.
The glint of silver told him that more men were arriving to bolster the defenders by the moment: he would have to go now. A roar, ready! and he bounded forward before the reply had thundered around him. A last look up and he hissed with pleasure as he saw that the Welshmen were responding as he had hoped, rushing in to throw a knot of shields and spears at the weakest point. At the last moment, as the enemy warriors threw their shoulders into their shields and prepared to beat back the charge he changed tack, confident that the men of his troop would blindly follow where he led. The earthwork had meant to be topped by a timber palisade, but the men who were to build it had been put to the sword a while back when Eofer and his men had destroyed the fort-let, and the eorle took the dozen feet of earth bank in a few great strides as he angled away from the main concentration of defenders. He snatched a glimpse over the rim of his shield the moment before he hit and was disappointed to see that men were appearing there in numbers, but he threw his shoulder into the boards and braced in the moment before contact and came on.
The shields met with a crash of wood and steel and Eofer was thrown back onto his heels, but a heartbeat later Horsa and Osbeorn smashed into his back and he felt himself moving forward again as the men behind grunted with effort, dug in their heels and drove upwards. Another heave and he realised that he stood on level ground as he reached the lip of the bank, and Eofer raised his eyes above the rim of his shield as he sought an opponent. An old greybeard, his face grizzled and timeworn by summer sun and winter chill was there, open mouthed in horror at the sight of the barbarian warlord who had appeared before him, and Eofer stayed his sword thrust, barging the man aside out of pity as he swept on. A quick look ahead and Eofer saw that the wall on the inner side of the fort was steeper than outside. Planed timbers projected near the top, the supports for the walkway which would have encircled the finished defences, and he took one of them at a run and launched himself into space.
A pair of defenders rushed towards him as he landed, spears raised, their expressions betraying their glee. Eofer was off balance and vulnerable, but the eorle saw the looks change to fear as heavy boots began to crash to the ground all around him. Before the Britons could recover he was up and moving. Gleaming scythed across to take the nearest spearman in the hip, and he barged him aside knowing that his men would finish the job as he ran on.
The interior of Hreopedun fort was a mass of leather tents, but a central path led from the main gate in the south to the River Trenta on its northern perimeter, and Eofer skipped the guy ropes as he rushed towards it. Pounded by a rainstorm and thousands of booted feet the central pathway was a quagmire, and Eofer hopped from one grassy patch to the next as he rushed towards the gates. Men were coming through in dribs and drabs as the army of Powys was driven back across the brook by the ferocity of the English attack, but most were turning to the right, rushing to reinforce the walls as they looked to hold the rampant Engles at bay. Not a man among them expected the enemy to be already within those walls, and Eofer increased his pace as he saw that the way ahead was open.
His eyes played across the men before him as he ran, searching out the one who would be the first to feel Gleaming’s bite. Within a moment he had him. A brute of a Welshman as wide as he was tall was standing in the main doorway, ushering men through into the interior and pointing out which parts of the wall needed reinforcing. Clad in mail, a fine blue cloak and a magnificently plumed war helm he was clearly a man of importance, and Eofer readied his sword as he finally broke free from the tent line.
Men began to notice him for the first time, to turn his way with surprise writ large on their faces, and he grunted with effort as he forced tired legs to put on a final spurt of speed. Eofer watched the warlord begin to turn as voices called a warning, but he had already closed the gap and he wound his body as Gleaming clove the air. A moment of resistance from the polished steel and the blade was through, and Eofer keened his war cry as he felt and heard the Welshman’s skull shatter beneath the power of the blow. Gleaming came clear as men began to react to the fury of his attack, and he dodged aside as a spear thrust clipped his own mail shirt a glancing blow. Before him the British leader staggered and fell, and Eofer whipped his head this way and that as he searched for the next opponent. A spearman darted forward from the pack and his sword swept around in reply, but the blade whistled through air as his opponent saw his leader fall, his valour deserting him as he scrambled beyond reach.
A spear length had opened up between them and Eofer leapt the body of the British leader, planted his feet at the centre of the gateway and dropped into a crouch, ready to fend off the next attack. All about him the Britons were drawing back, covering each other with their shields as they abandoned the gateway to the enemy, and within a moment the reason for their fear became plain as the duguth began to appear at his side.
As his doughty men formed a ring of steel about their lord, Eofer felt able to raise his gaze for the first time, and his spirit soared at the sight which greeted his eyes. Icel’s raven herebeacn was closing in on the far side of the little bridge as Cynlas Goch and his loyal cantrefs fought their way back to what they still believed to be the safety of the fortress. Only the width of Hreopedun Brook separated the white dragon of Anglia from the red of Powys, the short bridge sparkling like ice as sunlight played on steel and men struggled and died.
The mass of Britons had waded the waters of the brook itself and were lined up four or five deep on the near bank, stabbing and hacking at the Engles who were desperately trying to fight clear of the waters. It was the first time that morning that the men of Powys had held the advantage of higher ground and they were taking full advantage as they took their vengeance for their earlier suffering. Eofer watched as spears stabbed and swords rose and fell all along the line, but he knew what would give the Englishmen there fresh heart and he called out as the youth arrived to block the gateway completely.
‘Grimwulf!’
‘Yes lord?’
‘Get yourself forward and make the signal.’
A pair of Britons, too caught up in the misery of their own suffering to notice that the way forward was blocked by a wall of shields and spears were approaching them, and Eofer laughed aloud at the sight of their faces as his herebeacn was carried past them and raised aloft. A cheer rent the vale as the banner was seen, and faces were raised their way as the white dragon of Anglia dipped in acknowledgement and surged forward again.
Others had seen the banner, and despite the strength of their position the first Britons began to detach themselves from the battle line, slinking away in ones and twos towards the nearby trees and safety as they saw the enemy to their rear. Their fighting qualities would be little missed he knew, men who ran from a fight were little more than nithings, but the sight would add steel to the attackers and bolster their courage as they hacked their way clear from the bloody ditch.
As if to confirm that the decisive moment in the battle had arrived a war horn blew on the far side of the field, and the Saxon war banner was raised aloft as Seaxwulf led his men forward. The fighting itself seemed to pause for an instant as the men of both armies watched them come, and Eofer sent a plea to the war god Tiw that his trust had not been misplaced. Seaxwulf broke into a run, the Saxons streaming down the hill beneath the wolf head banner of their leader, and Eofer felt the thrill of certain victory as he watched them slam into the knot of Powys’ defending the bridge. A haunting wail rose into the morning air as the Brit
ons came to recognise that the day was lost, and a shudder seemed to roll along the enemy line as the Saxons punched through the rearmost troops and kept on going, sweeping along the nearside bank as Welshmen scattered like startled deer.
Suddenly the British battle line broke and men began streaming away, discarding weapons and armour in their panicked efforts to escape the spears and blades of their foemen. The fyrdmen of Mercia struggled up the near bank as the opposition panicked and ran, levering themselves onto dry land and watching them go. If the exhaustion caused by their exertions had robbed them of their breath it was as nothing to their sense of wonder at having survived, and they let the fiend go as they dared to believe for the first time in days that they might yet live to see their families again.
An exhausted cheer rolled around the meadow and Eofer looked across just in time to see the red draco of Powys beaten down. Victory belonged to the army of Mercia, he was sure now the very first of many, and Eofer grabbed Grimwulf as the mounted warriors from Lindcylene thundered by, chopping down at heads and shoulders as they chased the beaten army from the field. ‘Come on,’ he said, the light of the triumph shining on his face. ‘We have one last thing to do.’
As Horsa stepped in to take his place, Eofer led the youth back through Hreopedun fort. The Britons on the wall had witnessed the debacle at the brook and were streaming away. Aware that the English held the main gate they were making for the river, and Eofer ignored them as they made sure to give him a wide berth. ‘Get that rag down,’ he said as they came to the place. ‘You know what to do.’
The youth hauled at the rope as Eofer slipped his own banner free. Within moments the flags had been swapped, and the pair stepped back and watched with pride as the burning hart snapped taut in a sudden gust. The Britons were splashing into the river, and Eofer looked across as he saw movement on the far bank. A large group of horsemen were there, their glum expressions betraying their allegiance. He knew that they were probably men of Powys, perhaps even the expected reinforcements a half day too late, but he hoped that they belonged to The Peaks.