by C. R. May
‘What, that old fleapit you described that night in Bruidon, the one by the eastern gate?’
‘I had to bend the owner’s arm a bit,’ Eofer smiled, ‘but it’s always good business to keep in with the new ealdorman. Old Tewdwr said that Ioan and his boys probably owed him and the girls that much anyway, it was almost like asking him to give half of his place away for free!’
Squeals drew their eyes back across to the roadway, and the pair chuckled at the sight which met them. Several carts had drawn up, the people keen to trade news and food with warriors of their nation. Already several of the children were being tossed aloft and caught as the fighting men softened in their company, their elder sisters mooning and whispering among themselves as they watched. Safe now and with the harvest gathered in, new settlers were pouring into the lands despite the lateness in the year. The winter months would see new halls thrown up in Mercian lands, woodland cleared and the fertile ground made ready to receive their first ever seeding in the spring. Ceorls, free men: by old law each would carry a spear and shield as a mark of that freedom and at the rate which they were arriving, within the year the numbers available to man the Mercian fyrd could double. They chuckled again as a barrel was produced from somewhere, the settlers laughing with delight as Osbeorn led them all in apple bobbing.
‘How are your preparations going?’
‘For the trip to Geatland? Well, lord,’ Eofer answered. ‘The king has allowed me to send the war sword throughout Anglia, and Sæward has sent word that the Wulfings wish to add men to the ship army. They are not without grievances of their own where the Swedes and Danes are concerned.’
Icel nodded. ‘It is as you say, I only hope that you are not too late. Still,’ he said, ‘a war in the backwoods of Geatland.’ He blew out and the mischievous look with Eofer knew of old washed across the prince’s face. ‘That sounds like fun. I wish that I could have come too but I could not strip men from the frontier, not after all the sacrifices which the people have made to win this land. I cannot even spare Hemming from Tamtun, it is vital that we consolidate the new march.’ Icel smiled, and Eofer saw a flash of excitement cross his lord’s features. ‘In my lifetime I hope to carry the borders of Mercia across the valley of the Hafron, all the way to the western mountains and northwards up into the hills of The Peaks. Deal with Heardred’s foemen and then bring your family out west Eofer, take up your ealdormanship. We have busy years ahead of us, we two. Along with my father’s lands in Anglia, the Lindisware and the Wulfing lands, the English will soon be the most powerful people in Britain.’
25
As the horses wend their way through the final valley from home, Eofer felt his heart lighten at the closeness of it. A full summer had passed since he had last laid his eyes upon the centre of his world, the place where mead and ale flowed like water and he sat in judgement on his gift-stool. Astrid was there, and a smile came to his face as he imagined the delight with which she would receive his news. A full ealdorman, the lord of a Roman town encircled by walls of stone, ruled from a hall even larger than the hall of her brother King Heardred, back in Geatland. He felt at his side, snorting as he imagined the pride with which she would receive the gift. Icel had shown his generosity once again before they parted at the clearing by presenting Eofer with a golden set of girdle-hangers, the key-like pendants which hung from the belt of all married women and symbolised her rule over the hall of her lord and bonda.
Horsa had noticed Eofer’s movement and had guessed his thoughts, and his mouth drew a smile as the horses began to climb the incline. ‘Do you think that it will be enough, lord?’
Eofer looked at him and arched a brow in question.
Horsa nodded down at the purse which hung at Eofer’s waist. ‘The keys to the hall and the ealdormanscip which goes with it. A lord of Mercia,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And to think how close we came to ending our days winding our guts around wooden stakes.’
It was true. If it had not been for Thrush Hemming and the boys they would both have ended their days in a grove on the outskirts of Hleidre. That had been during the time of the war of fire and steel, but another great battle had just ended, the first battle in a war which he knew he would not live to see brought to its conclusion. The Britons were simply too strong to be swept away, the island too vast, but they had beaten back the best that Powys could throw against them and would do so again. Already the scops were moving from hall to hall in English lands, reciting the tale of the war-summer which men had come to call the Sciþþan, the Scathing. Life was good: tonight he would celebrate his homecoming with beef and ale before sharing the joys of the marital bed with a wife whose every ambition must now be fulfilled.
A lightness up ahead drew his mind back to the road before him, and Eofer took the final rise at a canter as they broke free of the trees. Half a mile ahead the sallow thatch which he knew so well hove into view, and he let out a yell of joy at the sight. The road levelled out, straightening as it followed a ridge line as straight as a spear-shaft the final few miles to Alduburh, and he snorted again as he thought of the grand sounding place. Glad to be home after the tempestuous events of the summer, Eofer reined in and cast a fond gaze across his lands as an autumn blow drove a scattering of tawny leaves across the heath.
In reality Alduburh was a collection of ramshackle huts, the home to a motley collection of fishermen and their families. A long shingle beach curved away there in a great arc to the south, running parallel to the coast for a mile before ending in a hook of land. The Romans had constructed a fort of sorts to guard against the raids made by his ancestors, but they had been overwhelmed by Engle spears and all that remained in his own time was a tumbledown watchtower, a tall warning beacon and the name which the invaders had bestowed upon it. This was the place where the Aldu emptied itself into the sea, and although the kink in its course added an extra half an hour of rowing to the journey home he had always thought it a boon.
The mere which backed the spit contained his salt pans. The long lead-lined basins were not his own introduction of course, sea water had been boiled here to extract the salt it contained further back in time than any man could recall, but they paid their dues to him like any other tenant. It was a good source of income.
Further inland the river was thick with fish traps, the posts and wattle screens known as sails and rods arrowing down to the long wattle sock which snared the fish themselves. Bass, flounder, eels and mullet were caught here by the barrel load, the hearty flesh gracing not only the long table in his own hall, but those for miles around.
With the tolls due to him from the crossing place into the lands of the Wulfings to the south and the sceatt paid to him by his tenants, Snæpe was, he knew, as fine a place for a hall as he had seen on either side of the German Sea.
Eofer made to haul at his reins, guiding his mount back to the roadway, when Horsa spoke at his side. ‘It looks like we have visitors, lord. They have not spared the sail cloth to get here either,’ he added ominously, ‘looking at the state of their hull.’
Eofer dropped his gaze, running his eyes across the riverbank where his own ship, the little scegth Skua, was already snug in her boat shed for the winter. Alongside the coils of rope and pitch blackened detritus which littered shipyards throughout Middle-earth a pair of larger ships, thirty-five, forty oared dragons, were resting their wide keels on the grass. Looking closer the thegn could see that the strakes of the larger vessel were heavily salt-streaked, always the sign of a hull driven hard. Eofer called across his shoulder and Einar broke off from his conversation with Octa, hurrying forward as the others saw the ships for the first time and instinctively fingered their weapons. ‘Lord?’
‘I assume that one of those ships carried you across from Geatland. Do you recognise the other?’
The Aldu was sparkling like ice in the weak autumnal sunshine, and Einar shaded his eyes against the glare as he studied the hulls. Finally he shook his head. ‘The ship on the right, the smaller hull, is the Wave
Dancer, the ship which as you guessed brought me here this summer past. The other ship I have never seen before.’ He shrugged. ‘It could be one of ours, but at least we know that they came with peaceful intent.’
Eofer crinkled his brow and the Geat explained. ‘Raiders don’t tend to unship their mast and neatly stack their oars before plundering a hall, they want to be in and out like a fiðeler’s elbow.’
Despite the uncertainties of the moment the Englishmen laughed at their new-found friend’s description. After yule an English war host would gather, taking ship in the rivers and inlets as they carried spear, sword and shield to Heardred’s beleaguered kingdom, and the amiable young Geat would finally fulfil the duty set by his lord. Until then it would seem that Eofer had guests for the winter, and plenty of them. Reassured by Einar’s words, Eofer called across his shoulder. ‘Smarten yourselves up boys! Grimwulf?’
‘Yes, lord?’
‘Hold that burning hart high.’ He shot a mischievous glance at the young Geat still at his side. ‘We have country cousins paying us a visit. Let us show them what a fame-bright English hearth troop looks like.’
He was about to urge his mount forward when a slight movement caught his eye, the dark shape silhouetted against the skyline as it stared his way. Horsa had been about to follow his lord’s lead, and he curbed his horse with difficulty as the pause took him by surprise. ‘What is it?’
Eofer indicated the distant hillock with a jerk of his head. ‘It’s lucky that Thrush is safely tucked away in Tamtun,’ he replied with a chuckle. ‘The old fool would be quaking in his boots if he saw that.’
‘Lord?’
‘Old Snarly yowl come to welcome us home,’ he grinned. ‘The year is almost up, it looks like he missed his chance to get us after all.’
Horsa looked across, squinting as he ran his gaze over the heathland. ‘Whereabouts?’
Eofer looked again but the horizon was empty, and he shook his head at his own foolishness. ‘I am seeing things now,’ he snorted. ‘Ignore me, we have been on the road too long. Come on,’ he said as he put back his heels, ‘let’s kick our boots off and wash the dust from our throats!’
The horse moved forward into a steady trot as the rest of the troop fell in behind. Ahead, figures were appearing at the entrance to the courtyard beneath the high gable, and he watched as a man saw the banner and took off to report that the lord of Snæpe was home from war.
Almost before the horses had gathered speed they were following the spur which led to the hall, and Eofer hauled at his reins, angling them to one side of the compound as he led the war troop in a wide circuit. Whooping and bellowing their hearth-joy they thundered across the heath as men tumbled from hall and outbuildings to point and stare.
The loop completed Eofer guided them back to the path, curbing his mount with a flourish as he came into the yard. The others were arriving behind him in a brawl of clattering hooves and laughter, and Eofer slid to the ground at the very moment that Astrid came through the hall door. The horse snickered playfully in his ear, the animal looking forward to a night under cover and a bellyful of food as much as any, and Eofer pushed its muzzle away with a snigger before turning back to greet his wife.
Caught up in the thrill of the ride and his own homecoming, Eofer sensed for the first time that the smiles and merriment in the yard were not being echoed in the faces before him. Men were shifting uncomfortably, many looking at their feet, some even glaring at him with thinly disguised hostility, and the first feeling of unease crept upon him as the numbers of Geats in the yard increased by the moment. Two ships’ crews, one a big dragon at that, could deliver a small army of warriors, and a quick tally told him that there were likely to be at least seventy fully armed foreign men hereabouts.
He switched his gaze away from the sour faced Geats back to the figure striding towards him as he began to get an inkling of what tidings these men had strained their sail to deliver. Astrid was marching across the space, her mood obvious in her purposeful movement and thunderous expression, her old thyften Editha bustling along in her wake. It became plain that the handmaid was pleading with her mistress as they came on, and the mask of joy which had painted Eofer’s face began to drain away like ale from a badly tapped barrel as she got closer, his world narrowing as he wondered what words were about tumble from her mouth.
Astrid reached him, and Eofer was shocked to see that her eyes were as hard and cold as any stone. He pulled himself upright, conscious that whatever was about to happen would do so in full view, not only of the men sworn to him, but warriors from a foreign nation. His mouth opened to speak as he sought to impose himself on the situation, but it spiralled out of control before he could utter a word. Astrid’s arm drew back and he watched unable to move for the shock of it, transfixed as if in a nightmare, as his wife’s hand swept through the air to strike his cheek with a noise which resounded around the courtyard like thunder. Eofer took a pace back in shock and surprise as the horrified gasps of scores of men seemed to suck the very air from the place. Editha staggered back from her mistress’ side, clasping a hand across her mouth as her eyes betrayed her fear for the woman she had served since she was a child. Astrid locked eyes with him, and Eofer’s very soul seemed to recoil from the anger displayed there as she hissed the reason for her action. ‘You are too late, hero. My brother is already dead.’
His wits were recovering from the shock of it all as his hand went to the handle of Gleaming, but the self-control which had served him well in battles across the northlands reasserted itself before the sword was drawn more than a hand’s width from its scabbard. She looked down, and a sneer crossed her face as she saw that he had stayed his retaliation. Lifting her chin once again Astrid opened her mouth to spit another insult, but her vitriolic look turned to one of shock as steel flashed and a spear blade shot past the eorle to drive the air from her lungs in an explosive gasp. Eofer instinctively took a step aside, swinging around to face the killer as the ash shaft was drawn back to stab again. As Editha’s screams echoed around the courtyard and Astrid’s slender body began to crumple under the force of the strike, Eofer prepared to attack. Somehow Gleaming was already drawn, ready to strike, but he hesitated as he saw that it was his own youth Beornwulf who stood before him, the point of his spear slick with gore.
Beornwulf let the spearhead drop, holding his arms out wide to open himself up for the killing strike. Eofer looked at his youth, aghast at the speed with which his world had been turned on its head. The Geats were beginning to recover, and cries of outrage at the act resounded from the walls of the hall as the men of Eofer’s own troop sensed the danger and scrambled to retrieve shields and weapons from their mounts. Eofer and Beornwulf locked eyes and the eorle saw the fear there, but the youth puffed up his chest with pride at the act and spoke in a voice wavering with emotion. ‘I have remained true to my oath. None shall lay a hand on the person of my ring-giver, the man whose life I love more than my own. Don’t think,’ he said as tears rimmed his eyes. ‘Strike me down quickly lord and put an end to the bloodshed.’
Eofer’s eyes swam from Beornwulf to the angry Geats and down to the bloodied figure at his feet. Editha was on her knees, cradling her mistress’ head, the very same one which had suckled at her breast all those years before, and Eofer willed his arms to act despite the reluctance of his conscious mind to order them. His thoughts were beginning to unscramble themselves after the shock of the last few moments, and he began to move his sword arm as he saw the sense in the youth’s words. The Geats were taking their first steps forward as the blood of their princess pooled in the gaps between the cobbles, and Eofer jerked his head back instinctively as he heard the familiar swoosh of a sword blade cutting the air. Before he could think he was back on his heels, sloping a shoulder as he dropped into a fighting stance. Gleaming came around, slicing across to parry the attacker’s blade, but a dark shape bowled through the air instead as steel flashed again.
The angry growls now came from Eng
lish throats, and Eofer raised his eyes as Beornwulf’s headless body sank to the earth to see that Einar had been the swordsman. The young Geat scout raised his voice so that all in the courtyard could hear as his countrymen hesitated, unsure how to react to the killings.
‘I am Einar son of Harald, son of Thorbjorn, a Geat from the forests west of Edet. I give notice that I lawfully slew this man before witnesses, that I took the weregild owed to my folk for the slaying of Astrid Hygelacsdottir.’
Eofer looked beyond the young Geat to the men of his troop as the situation balanced on a knife edge. Several of the youth were recovering from the shock of their friend’s death, raising spears, twisting their features into a snarl of hatred as they looked to avenge the death of their hearth mate and he barked an order at them to stay their hands, sheath their weapons now that the death had been avenged, the blood-price paid. Their tails were up, but he recognised the moment when the discipline which he and his duguth had drummed into them overcame the lust for revenge and the madness began to flicker and die in their eyes.
Only one there could not speak a word of any language of Germania, could not understand his plea nor the intricacies of the warrior code of honour, and Eofer looked on in helpless horror as Emyr snatched up a spear and prepared to fulfil the oath he had made on the field of death outside Hreopedun burh.
Eofer’s mouth opened to call a warning, but before a sound could escape steel stabbed out again as the spear darted forward to bury itself in the young scout’s back.
Eofer looked at the faces of his duguth as Einar sank to his knees and saw his own growing realisation reflected there. The gods were having their last entertainment from this war band and moving on. Their wyrd was upon them.
A roar of Geatish outrage enveloped the courtyard again and Eofer whirled around, Gleaming raised and ready to parry. But his vision was already filled with mail and helms, angry snarls within bearded faces, and he gasped in shock and disbelief as the first spear blade slammed into his gut. As he doubled over another caught his shoulder a glancing blow, spinning him around as he fought to retain his balance despite the agony. The eorle staggered and a foot slid forward to recover, but the next seaman opened his thigh with a backhanded sweep as he passed and Eofer felt the strength leave the limb as it buckled beneath him. Salt stained boots filled his vision as he attempted to rise again and the clamour of fighting filled the yard, but the pain caused him to swoon as an invisible hand gripped his innards and held tight. Eofer fell back, his mind swirling with the horror of it as he turned his head towards the sound of steel striking steel.