The Scathing

by C. R. May

  24

  ‘Just keep the best stuff. Swords, mail and helms. Spearheads and shield bosses can be lopped off and carried in baskets.’ Eofer cocked a brow and a look of amusement came to his face. ‘It is not like we are doing the carrying after all.’ The men went away happy now that someone had made the decision for them. If it was the wrong one the finger of blame would not be pointing their way. A dragon’s hoard of wealth lay strewn across Hreopedun meadow, and the beaten rump of the army of Powys were busy gathering them in, heaping them into piles as more of their kind loaded the weapons and armour onto carts and wagons. Others had the grim task of piling the bodies of their countrymen while yet more dug the great ditch which was to be the last resting place of their hacked and broken bodies.

  ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ Horsa said. ‘Leaving flesh and bones to moulder underground like that, you need a good blaze to release a man’s soul from his body.’

  Eofer shrugged as another party of Britons struggled past with their grim cargo. ‘It’s their way, custom rules in every land. They are fortunate that they are being taken care of at all. If we were not going to complete the burh here and occupy it ourselves they would have been left where they were as a warning to others not to carry spear and sword to Mercian lands. Anyway you forget,’ he said, ‘that my own ancestors still lay beneath the soil of Engeln even though the barrows have been ploughed out. One day the same fate awaits my own bones. Icel was going to build a pyre for the dead here but the Christian churchmen begged him not to. Apparently they need to be buried whole so that they can rise again at something called the day of judgement.’

  Horsa looked horrified at his reply. ‘So they lay in the ground until the end of the world and then get judged, all mouldy and grotty?’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘And the priests expect people to give up the old gods for that?’

  ‘Well, I am no expert but that is how I understand it. Why don’t you go and ask old smiler, the Christian priest? Make sure that you have plenty of time on your hands though, once they get a sniff of a convert they never let go.’

  ‘Christ-guda I can handle, lord. It’s these wolves that turn my guts inside out.’

  Eofer looked and saw that a party of slave traders were moving among the beaten men, eyeing up the day’s haul as they tallied the lowest price they might get away with paying for their cargo of misery. In appearance each and every one could have been taken for an ætheling had it not been for their dark curly hair and swarthy looks. Fine woollen cloaks, edged with marten fur, were pinned at the shoulders by delicately worked brooches inlaid with garnet and glass. Embroidered tunics and strange baggy breeks of eastern silk: gold, silver and amber on arms and necks. A solitary knife hung at each man’s belt, the hulking guards who accompanied them all the protection they would need. The Engles sneered with distaste as the slavers passed them by, babbling among themselves as they reckoned the profit they could wring from other men’s bravery.

  Eofer was about to make a reply when one of the traders broke off from his conversation and turned back sharply. A guard hastened to his side as the slaver walked across and began to run his hand along the shoulders and arms of a young Briton. The other prisoners paused at their work and looked on in disgust as the slave trader continued to run his hands over the young lad who had stiffened and flushed with shame. All those watching, Briton and Engle, realised the significance at the same moment, and a growl arose from them as the trader looked around in surprise. His guard caught the tension in the air and moved to draw his sword, but English spears were raised in a heartbeat and Eofer was relieved to see that the man was wise enough to stay his hand. As his colleagues returned with their own guards in tow, the southerner felt emboldened enough to turn a smile of amusement upon Eofer and his weorthman. ‘This young man is beautiful,’ he trilled. ‘So fair and lithe.’ A flash of mischief crossed his face as he continued. ‘You northerners are so priggish. This one will warm my bed and then do the same for a man in the south, where the summers are hot and the winters are not so cold that they chill your bones. He will have a far better life than the rest, would you seek to deny him that?’

  Eofer opened his mouth to reply but Horsa beat him to it. Pinning the southerner with a glare he spoke levelly in a voice dripping with menace. ‘This one already belongs to us.’

  The slaver gave a superior chuckle and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Your prince has already sold them all to us, just the price is left to be agreed.’

  With the man’s casual reference to Icel the duguth knew that he was out of his depth, and he looked to Eofer for help. He was not to be disappointed.

  ‘He is a bowman. I need a bowman. He is mine.’

  The slave trader looked from Eofer to Horsa and back again. Suddenly he laughed and shook his head. ‘You men from the north. You have a certain magnificence but no sense of civilisation. Very well,’ he said. ‘Keep him, there are plenty of others.’ He wafted across to rejoin his companions as the bodyguard edged away. Eofer made a point of running his eyes over the contrast between his own clothing and that of the guard as he went. The warmth of the day was beginning to dry Eofer’s breeks and the lower half of his shirt where he had waded the brook, but his boots were thick with mud and a winingas had simply disappeared leaving one leg of his trews flapping in the breeze. A gash showed where a spear thrust had opened up several links in his mail byrnie, and his sword arm and hand were darkened by the blood of his foemen. He looked back through eyes haloed by weariness, sneering with contempt at the big swordsman as he contrasted the immaculate dress of the man with the war-weary state of his own. ‘You are keeping your master waiting, pretty boy.’

  The men of Eofer’s band grinned at the man’s discomfort as he lowered his eyes in shame and slunk away, and the Powys’ joined in with the laughter as men there translated the words for their friends.

  As the tension lessened and the prisoners got back to work Horsa began speaking to the boy. Eofer heard his own name mentioned, but his Welsh was either too poor to follow the conversation or the dialect new to him. Finally Horsa explained as Grimwulf came across to lead the unexpected addition to their numbers away. ‘His name is Emyr, lord. He came east with his father and uncle but both were killed, his father earlier in the year and his uncle today.’

  ‘So he is alone?’

  ‘Just his ma and sister back west on the farm.’

  Eofer nodded. ‘What did you tell him about me?’

  ‘I told him the truth, that you were a good lord, brave and just. He could tag along with us for now if he gave us his word that he would act like any other of your oath sworn, and place your wellbeing above his own. If he wanted to stay he would have to learn English and show his worth. If not he could return home and be the man of the family once things have settled down.’

  ‘A hundred suns…’

  Eofer screwed up his face and looked at the man who had become his thegn, the first of his ealdormanship. They had been drinking for days, ever since they had returned from Hreopedun, and he was beginning to worry that the giddigness was permanent. Could a man drink so much that he remained sozzled for all time? He shrugged and chuckled at the wanderings of his own mind: it was worth a try! He took another sip and attempted to recall why he was looking at his man. Then he had it, and he forced his eyes to focus on the bearded face he had known since childhood as he asked the question. ‘Who would want a hundred sons? The last dozen wouldn’t need to be born, they could just walk out!’ Hemming threw him a quizzical look before the beard was split by a smile. ‘No, not sons,’ he laughed. ‘Suns, you know…like the one in the sky!’

  Eofer giggled and took another sip. ‘What in Thunor’s hairy arse are you on about, Thrush?’

  ‘Over there.’ Thrush Hemming pointed at the pile of booty taken from the army of Powys. ‘The firelight reflecting on the steel: it looks like a hundred suns.’

  Eofer looked and saw that it was true. Among them all, where the pile of metal curved away, a cooler glin
t was akin to a scattering of stars. The whole of the western wall of the hall, the hall which was soon to become his own, had been cleared of benches and tables the moment that they had returned to Leircestre. Cart after cart had returned from Hreopedun piled high with the spoils from the beaten army, helms, mail shirts, spears and swords of every type and quality. Strewn about the floor were the banners and flags of the invader, dirtied and torn by the passage of muddy boots. Above them all, pinned to the gable wall by dozens of spear points, was the red draco which had meant to fly over the conquered burh; now upended in dishonour, its long tail hanging limp with shame.

  Leircestre itself was full fit to burst with men, as the fyrdmen celebrated their own survival and their newfound wealth for as long as they could before taking the long walk home, back to a life of responsibility and sobriety.

  Cueldgils had already left for home, a small herd of fine war horses the reward for his part in the battle and the steadfastness shown by the Lindisware in their rediscovered loyalty to the line of Offa. Word had already come that the army of The Peaks had been thrown back with contemptuous ease by the Anglo-British nation, but he had taken a hundred of Icel’s finest Sword-Engles with him in the unlikely event that they return before the weather broke and winter lay its white hand upon the land. The same messenger who had carried the word of victory to Leircestre had told them that it had been Gildas, the firebrand priest who had been under Eofer’s sword twice that summer, who had been the driving force behind the treacherous attack. Harangued for days on end and threatened with something called excommunication by the holy man, Sawyl Penuchel had favoured the fate of his soul above his word of honour as a king; discussions were already taking place in English halls about how the army of Mercia could help him fulfil his wish for martyrdom sooner rather than later. Gildas already carried a scar from their first meeting, and Eofer made himself a promise that the next time their paths crossed he would finish the job once and for all.

  A thræl woman bent to replace the jug on the table before them, her charms as full and inviting as low slung apples at hærfest month, and Eofer exchanged a look with Hemming as she flashed them a coy smile and made a great play at wiping up a spillage. ‘Come on Thrush,’ he said, pushing himself up with unsteady legs. ‘Let’s walk. My eyes are already jiggling enough.’

  The long fire pits were blazing merrily, casting a glow over booty and drinkers alike. High above, up beneath the eaves, the wind holes had been shuttered for the first time as the first frosts that winter painted the town with its whiteness and the air inside was muggy with heat and smoke. Eofer took another pull from his ale horn as they walked. ‘When are you heading back?’

  Hemming pulled a face. ‘In the morning, lord: Welshmen will not chase themselves away. Truth be told,’ he added. ‘As much as it gladdens my heart to see you and the rest of the boys I just don't feel part of the gang anymore.’

  Eofer laid a hand on his old weorthman’s shoulder and gave him a look of pride. ‘That only goes to show me that making you my first thegn was the right decision. How long has it been since that night and day, desperately throwing up defences around the hill at Tamtun before the Britons at Cair Luit Coyt sallied and used our sorry hides for spear practice? Two...three months?’

  Hemming nodded. ‘Just over three months lord: just before the solstice.’

  ‘Now you have a weorthman of your own and men like Hryp and Beonna, warriors who have your full confidence, enough that you will trust them to find their way to Bruidon and warn the ætheling and the army of Mercia that they may be walking into a trap.’ Eofer clapped Hemming on the shoulder. ‘Now you have proven to Icel that you can lead, as I always knew that you would, I could not think of a better man to entrust the safety of my lands and family to when I am over the sea.’

  Hemming wrinkled his nose. ‘I do envy you in that though lord, if the truth be told. It would be good to see the old lands again, just one last time. There is something…’ He paused as he searched for the right words. ‘Something...well...ruddy? about the old lands Eofer,’ he said finally. ‘I know that this land is tamer, softer, but I lie awake at night sometimes and worry that the sea is three days’ ride away. I miss the salty tang on the breeze, the screech of gulls, rocky inlets and sandy dunes: racks of herring stretching away as the wind dries them on the strand. Shit,’ he laughed as he realised how melancholy his words sounded. ‘I even miss having the Jutes nearby to harry for fun!’

  The hall echoed to the sound of their laughter and the warriors at the benches looked up from their ale at the sound, smiles breaking out all along the tables as they saw their leaders in such fine fettle. Eofer and Hemming moved aside as a scop strode the aisle, the sound of the lyre rising above the hubbub in the great space as the poet belted out a verse to their victory. ‘I will be back by midsummer,’ Eofer said. ‘Once the Swedes relearn the fact that any enemy of the Geats is also the enemy of the Engles, King Heardred can reign in peace. The German Sea is not so wide that one cannot come to the aid of the other, and it will do my son Weohstan good to witness the force of English arms, before he forgets his race!’ The new ealdorman glanced at his thegn, and Hemming recognised the look from old as the countenance of a wolf flashed across his features. ‘This winter cannot pass soon enough, Thrush. Next year English arms crush the Swedes in Geatland and cross the Trenta to repay Sawyl Penuchel for his treachery. The gods love us old friend, who can stop us?’

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ Icel said as the horses entered the glade. ‘Do you think that you can find your own way from here?’

  ‘If I don’t now, I soon will lord,’ Eofer replied. ‘This is the road which connects my lands after all. After this Swedish war is won I shall be back this way with more cartloads of booty.’

  ‘You are keeping the lands around Snæpe then?’

  Eofer nodded. ‘I love it there Icel. Your father has already given me permission to throw up a barrow on the ridge when the time comes. When my spirit walks on stormy nights I can gaze out across the estuary and watch the waves crashing ashore on the spit there.’

  Icel laughed. ‘If you ever decide to hang up your sword Eofer, you can always become a scop!’

  ‘I am not settling down just yet,’ Eofer added defensively. ‘Sæward will be acting as my reeve there and keeping the ships ready for when I need them. I may bring my scegth up to Leircestre, but I am having the same shipwright build me a snaca at his yard up at Yarnemutha which I will keep in a fine new boat shed on the banks of the Aldu, a big fifty oar snake ship fit for a sea-ealdorman.’

  The pair dismounted and Eofer stretched tired limbs. The ætheling was still spritely, annoyingly so after a week on the ale, and Eofer reflected on his decision to scale back on his raiding...just a bit. Astrid had been right after all, even if for the wrong reasons, the time had come to take up the king’s offer of ealdormanship. His own days of constant raiding and fighting were drawing to a close, but he knew that he gave down sound judgements from his gift-stool and he had two sons already with hopefully more to follow. Little Ælfgar had yet to wrap his hand around the handle of a sword, but Weohstan would soon return from foster and Eofer’s heart sang at the thought of them fighting shoulder to shoulder against English enemies.

  An old elm had succumbed to winter blow, and they let themselves down onto a sturdy bough as the men collected wood to cook the midday meal. Icel flashed his newest ealdorman a grin as he recalled the events of that summer. ‘What a year it has been, Eofer. You should be proud of the part that you played in our great victory, not just with your sword arm, but with your scheming. If you had obeyed my orders and squatted in Leircestre like an obedient thegn when I went off to Lindcylene it might have cost us everything. Capturing the young Saxon and having the wits to use the boy to turn his father was a masterstroke, it’s what separates great leaders from those who are merely great warriors. Discovering that Seaxwulf’s oath of service ran out when the Barley-moon appeared was the key to everything. Mind you,’ he laug
hed, ‘I still had my heart in my mouth when they came roaring down from that hillock at the end of the battle. If they had played one against the other and renewed their deal with Cynlas Goch we could have been in deep trouble. It would have been unlikely that we could have got the army back up into the higher land, and even if we had I doubt that we would have had the numbers left to hold our old battle line. So thank the gods for your intuition and the loyalty of your Welsh friend.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the Saxon now?’ Eofer asked.

  Icel shrugged. ‘There are always plenty of uses for a war band of that quality. I may add them to the men crossing the Trenta this winter to teach Sawyl Penuchel a lesson, but their knowledge of the western lands will be invaluable in the future. Most of them were born there, although they still consider themselves as Saxon as any man born across the sea in Saxland itself.’

  The pair smiled together as a robin landed on a nearby branch, cocked its head and regarded Eofer with interest. The red chested bird always seemed to appear when changes to his life thread occurred, and Eofer had wondered that the little bird was actually his fetch. The physical embodiment of a man’s spirit often took the form of an animal or bird and were always close by, but rarely glimpsed unless they presaged great change. Icel carried on as the bird fluttered off and became lost from sight.

  ‘What about Ioan and his band of rascals. Have you rewarded them yet?’

  Eofer nodded as the first smells of cooking wafted across on the breeze. ‘I gave them a hall in the town and bought Ioan a half share in The Tewdwr.’