Gods of War

by C. R. May

  Wulf stopped suddenly and threw his brother a smile. ‘It’s a good place, Eofer. I am pleased for you.’

  ‘Maybe you should try it?’

  Wulf snorted. ‘No, brother, it’s not for me. I am happy where I am, a king’s gesith. I fight for my lord and he rewards me with gold, honour and women. I have all that I need.’

  Osric came across. ‘You are just in time to see the final rafters slot into place on the ridge beam. You won’t see it from the outside of course, not when the thatched ridge goes on, but I will get the lads to batten them up, save your thatcher a job. Would you like a quick tour, lord?’ he asked as he leaned in, lowering his voice as he wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘It gives me the excuse to take a break, and it is hot.’

  Wulf took a draught of his ale and pointed ahead with the cup: ‘lead on.’

  Osric grinned with delight, and the brothers shared a look of amusement. No artisan needed prodding into discussing his work and the shipwright was no different.

  ‘Over here,’ he began as they sauntered across, ‘are the finest walls in Anglia. Because there is plenty of oak available in the valley, all I have done for the exterior wall is split the trunk in two and sink it in a trench. Normally on sandy soil like this,’ he continued as he stamped his foot, ‘we wouldn’t bother worrying about the damp, but with the coast only a couple of miles that way we dug a foundation trench and filled it with shingle from the beach. It helps to support the frame as well as keeping the damp down in the earth where it belongs. We sunk the vertical posts into the trenches and braced them with the tie beams which you can see overhead. The split trunks, staves we call them, then go in curved side outwards, and the interior walls are finished off with these planks, edge butted horizontally and fixed by tree nails, not clinkered like on a ship. It keeps the wall nice and smooth, ready for mounting shields, tapestries and the like.’

  Wulf looked down and exclaimed with surprise. ‘And a planked floor!’ He glanced at Eofer. ‘I shall have to tell King Eomær when I return to Theodford that he has a rival in splendour.’

  Osric snorted. ‘The truth is that we had so much oak left over it was easier to fit floor joists and plank it over than send a cart to the lowlands to bring back clay for a beaten floor. Up here on the heath the ground is as dry as a bone, so you can’t pack it down hard enough to get a good solid foundation, the surface will just skip off when you walk on it. Just so long as you build in a good firm base to the hearth though it’s not a problem, and easier to keep clean. The twin lines of posts which run the length of the hall support the weight of the roof of course.’ He turned to Eofer as Wulf ran a hand along the sandy coloured wood. ‘I will send the same man who did the scroll work on the sheer strake of the Skua down to carve any designs that you want on them, lord, as soon as I get back to Yarnemutha. A couple of weeks to dry out a little and it will be perfect for carving, oak’s lovely like that,’ he added wistfully. ‘Like carving cheese.’

  ‘And this must be the ring giver’s dais,’ Wulf said as he hopped up onto the raised platform. Shouts rose into the air from the youth outside and they all shared a smile as Eofer shook his head. ‘It is good that they are so settled here,’ he said with a snort as the yells came again, louder this time. ‘It is a long way to take them back.’

  They all chuckled as they stepped up onto the platform, turning to face back down the hall as Osric completed his tour. ‘Entrances at the midpoints of the long walls, crosswise for light and air,’ Osric said with a flourish, ‘and facing this way at the end, the twin doors leading to the buttery and pantry.’ Finally he jerked a thumb over his shoulder; ‘and through yon doorway, the lord’s private chamber.’ He spread his hands wide as Eofer began to frown at the commotion which had gained an edge of anger outside. ‘There you have it, a hall fit for an eorle.’

  Osric’s look of pride fell away as a girl’s scream cut the air, and Eofer blew out in irritation as the moment was ruined. ‘Give the lads a break, Osric, they have worked hard enough for one day in this heat. ‘Show my brother the ale store,’ he said as he jumped from the dais, before throwing a weary smile across his shoulder. ‘Don’t let him drink any, just show him where it is.’

  He turned back as he strode towards the door, his anger increasing as he got nearer and the noise redoubled. Grimwulf’s face appeared in the doorway, the youth hanging on the doorframe as he squinted into the gloomy interior. Eofer immediately knew that whatever was causing the rumpus would require more than his sudden appearance to quieten.

  ‘What is it?’

  Grimwulf finally picked him out from the shadows, and Eofer’s stomach dropped as he saw the shock written on the lad’s face.

  ‘It is Rand, lord,’ he cried. ‘Spearhafoc has stabbed him!’

  Eofer thought that he had misheard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Spearhafoc!’ he cried again. ‘She’s fucking stabbed him!’

  Eofer pushed past the youth and stepped out into the sun-washed yard. His youth were clustered around a prone figure which had to be Rand, while, off to one side Finn had Spearhafoc lying face down in the dust, his knee in the small of her back and her right arm twisted back and thrust upwards towards her shoulder blades. The knife which the girl had been using to strip the withies a short time ago now lay at her side, and Eofer saw with consternation that the blade was slick with blood. He hurried across, shoving the dark twins aside to get to the injured boy. Horsa had stripped the belt from his tunic, tightening it around the lad’s thigh to stem the blood flow, and he looked up as Eofer’s shadow fell across him. ‘How bad is it?’

  Horsa loosened the belt, and a thick red upwelling ran out to add to the sticky patch of mud at his side. ‘It’s bad, lord,’ he said with a purse of his lips, ‘deep. But the blood’s not pumping or squirting out, just flowing.’ He looked across to Spearhafoc. ‘I can stop the bleeding for now, but he needs a hedge-witch. Someone who knows what they are doing.’

  Eofer stomped across the yard as Wulf and Osric appeared at the doorway, the shock written large on their faces. He jerked his head to the side, and Finn leapt away as he saw the fire in his gaze. Grabbing the girl by the scruff of the neck, Eofer lifted her bodily off the ground and slammed her against the side of the hall. ‘Why?’

  If he had expected to see defiance or hatred in her face he was to be disappointed. The Briton looked crumpled, as broken as he had ever seen a person, and despite the rage which had built within him, the sight of her held his desire for retribution in check. This was the girl who had lived with them for the best part of a year, saving lives more than once as her arrows silenced guards throughout the lands of the Jutes and Danes. Horsa owed his life to her leechcraft, there had to be a reason. He tightened his grip on the necking of her tunic, balling it as her feet dangled a foot above the dusty ground. ‘Why did you stab your friend?’ The girl attempted to answer but all that came was a racking sob. He spoke again. ‘Will you save him?’ She nodded and he let her drop. ‘Get over there, and see to it. We have no sacred groves to drown murderers in the new land, if he dies, you hang.’

  The youth moved aside as Spearhafoc dragged herself across. Finn kicked the blade out of reach as she passed, and the absence of trust shown by the action drew another sob of misery from the girl. Anna turned his head to catch her words as the girl spoke in a whisper, pointing away with a shaky hand.

  As Anna hurried off to do her bidding, Eofer called to Finn and he hurried across. ‘Finn, what happened.’

  ‘I didn’t see it lord,’ he answered. ‘But Crawa and Hræfen said that Rand dropped another bundle for her and she snapped something at him. He said something back and she just lashed out with the knife she was using.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a deliberate attack. Just a reaction to something he said?’

  ‘It seems so, lord,’ Finn answered. ‘You can end up just as dead though,’ he added pointedly, ‘whether it is done deliberately or not.’

  Hemming was there, his face like thunder. ‘Kil
l her now,’ he growled.

  Wulf was at his side and the words seemed to cut through his bemusement at the drama which had suddenly appeared in their midst. Eofer’s brother set his face as he added his voice to Hemming’s. ‘Thrush is right, Eofer, kill her now. No words should be able to break the bond which exists between men who are sworn to the same lord.’ His hand moved to his side and Eofer saw that his kinsman was untying the peace bands which held his sword secure within the scabbard. As the ribbons fell away, silver shone as Wulf drew the blade an inch and fixed Eofer with a glare. ‘Say the word brother, and I will take her head from her shoulders.’

  27

  The torches guttered as a gusting breeze threw them away to the East, and Eofer paused and scanned the heavens. Away to the West the sky was a wall of fire as the wolf chased the horses on, and an image of the wagon drawn orb of the sun flickered into his mind as the age-old pursuit played out. One day, at the end of the world, Treachery would catch the Golden Mares, devouring them along with their charge. It would usher in the Terrible Winter at the end of time, when the great serpent which encircled the earth would thrash the seas to mountains, gods would grapple with giants and snow and ice grip Middle-earth. He snorted, and the spearmen at the entrance to the Howe exchanged a look, covering their indecision with a smile. ‘Come on,’ Wulf giggled. ‘We are keeping two kings waiting.’

  The flames recovered as the wind dropped to a sigh, becoming fire-serpents themselves as the giddiness from the symbel ale worked its spell. They were the last to arrive and the sentinels moved away to walk the perimeter of the site, joining their fellows there as the pair propped their swords alongside the others, stepped across the threshold and entered the burial chamber.

  King Eomær was seated at the far end of the room, and he raised a drinking horn in salute as the sons of Wonred paused again to allow their eyes to acclimatise to the gloom. ‘Join us,’ the king cried as faces turned their way. ‘Eofer, my grandfather wishes to thank you for his safe journey to the new lands.’

  The assembled warriors boomed and stamped their feet in approval, and Eofer smiled his thanks as the brothers began to examine the grave goods provided for the ancient king. Immediately before him an iron cauldron hung from the roof beam by a heavy chain with links as large as fists. Beyond that the priests had gathered together iron hooped buckets and pails containing the foodstuffs which the first harvest had provided his descendants. Fruits and berries, nuts, loaves, flitches of bacon, pitchers of ale and mead to wash them down.

  At the head of the chamber carpenters had constructed a stout seat, the final gift-stool of the king men said had been the greatest of them all. The golden urn containing the ashes of Offa, King of Engeln rested upon it in honour, surrounded by shields, spears and swords backed by the battle flag which had so recently pierced the skies of Daneland, greatest of fiends.

  King Eomær was on his feet, and he showed Eofer honour as he came forward to hand him a horn of ale. Resting his hand on the eorle’s shoulder he turned back to face the room. ‘Offa, Engelcyning, this is Eofer Wonreding, who men call king’s bane, the king killer. Know that this man is a hero of your people, a treasured eorle. At my instruction he carried you overseas to a new land we now call Anglia, so that your shade shall move among your people always.’ The king removed his sword and walked back to the king chair as the warriors watched from the benches in silence. Eomær held the sword towards Offa’s urn and spoke again. ‘Offa, greatest of Engles, I return your battle blade, Stedefæst, to you. It has served me well, drank the blood of English enemies as it did in your own time.’ The king rested the sword against the bowl of the chair and turned back. ‘Eofer, Offa’s shade moves among us in this place. Unlock your word-hoard, show him that men of quality and skill still flourish among his people.’

  Eofer’s mind raced as he sought to live up to the honour of addressing the greatest of Englishmen through a giddig haze, but a familiar voice floated into his mind and he recognised it immediately across the passage of time. Offering Oswin’s own shade a small smile of gratitude, Eofer raised his chin and began.

  ‘Offa was praised for his victory-lust

  by far-off men;

  The spear-bold warrior ruled wisely

  over the empire of the English;

  That was a good king.

  Eomær was his kinsman,

  grim in war, the son of his son;

  Jute and Dane quailed at his name.

  Gold flowed from his gift-hoard

  to gladden his eorles.’

  Again the assembled warriors boomed their appreciation, the space resounding to the stamp of booted feet as Eofer took his place beside Wulf. The men began to stand, one by one, as they too recounted a stanza for the great king, tales of armies crushed and fleets destroyed, as the Engles stained the ground with the battle-dew of their enemies. Soon it was King Eomær’s turn to regale his ancestor’s spirit with a tale, and the men listened as they supped from their horns to the tale of the Wide Farer. The chosen heroes hung on every word as the unknown journeyman recounted the heroics of other kings, Theodric of the Franks, Breoca of the Brondings, Helm, King of Wulfings, until the king reached the tale of his own kinsman and he set his face with pride:

  ‘Offa ruled the Engles, Alewih the Danes.

  He was the bravest of all those men,

  but could not defeat Offa in deeds of arms,

  and the noble Offa while still a boy

  won in battle the greatest of kingdoms.

  No-one of that age ever achieved

  more glory than he did. With his sword alone

  he marked the border against the Myrgings

  at the mouth of the Egedore.

  Engles and Swæfe observed it

  ever after as Offa had won it.’

  The walls of Offa’s death hall shook as the warriors roared their acclaim. Ale flowed, boar was eaten, and promises were pledged of even greater deeds to come as the English forged their new land in the ashes and rust of an older civilisation. Wulf beamed at his side, and Eofer thought that he had never seen his brother so happy as at that moment. As the laughter and boasting thundered around him, a melancholy air stole over the eorle, sinuous and wraith-like but difficult to shift all the same. Whether it was the fact of his father’s death and the part which he had inadvertently played in it he could not say, but it was a truth which sat ill with him that he had played a large part in the decision to move to the new land. If they had elected to remain in Engeln and fight for dominance of the lands which bordered The Belts his father would still live, would still be a proud folctoga.

  Wulf topped up his horn, Eofer smiling his thanks as the noise and mayhem swirled around him, and he forced the sour mood down deep. In his heart he knew that they had made the right decision. The first harvest was safely gathered in, new halls and villages had sprung up almost overnight. Already the first delegations had arrived at the hall of the king, their new British neighbours keen to ally themselves to the power which had come into their midst. Gold and promises had been exchanged and the new year would see English arms carried beyond the borders of Anglia, deep into the heartlands of Britannia itself. New life was replacing the old as it always had, as it always would until the wolf finally chased down the sun; in the morning he would formally name his new son, sprinkle him with water at the Temple Ring and accept him into the family.

  A chant got up, and Eofer came back from his thoughts. On the benches opposite, Icel was attempting to down an aurochs horn of ale in one deep draught to the delight of the onlookers, and the thegn joined in the smiles of anticipation as they awaited the ætheling’s inevitable soaking.

  Soon the evening was over and it was time to take their leave. Arm in arm the sons of Wonred staggered into the night. Retrieving their swords they drew them as one, renewing their pledge to their lord and acclaiming his ancestor for the final time.

  As they gulped down the cool night air, Eofer smiled in greeting as the next group of warriors to ent
ertain the old king passed him by with a boozy cry. Wulf was hanging on his shoulder and he let out an ale soaked belch and squinted across. ‘Wæs hæl!’ He giggled. ‘Drink, brother?’

  ‘So,’ Eofer said as the pair rode the final few miles, ‘you never did explain how you found me in Daneland.’

  Hemming shot his lord a look, snorting softly as the events of that week came back to him. ‘Only the gods could have found a way, lord. You truly are Woden blessed.’ He shook his head. ‘We just asked around and struck lucky if the truth be told. Grimwulf was handy, the lad knew the area well from his time as a slave there. And we wore these of course.’ Hemming fished inside the purse which hung at his waist and produced a silver hoop. Giving the disc a huff and a quick polish on his sleeve he held it up to the light. ‘Jutish brooches, the ones which we took at The Crossing. I knew that they would be useful,’ he grinned. ‘Not as quickly as it turned out though,’ he admitted with a snort. ‘If anyone gave us a funny look we pointed at these and they took our accents for Jutish. They knew all about the defeat and capture of King Osea and his jarls, so they just accepted that we would have a score to settle with the Engles. Once we tracked you down to Hroar’s Kilde, it was just a matter of biding our time until the opportunity to grab you back presented itself.’

  Eofer shot him a look and a grin. ‘So your great rescue plan was to sit somewhere wassailing, while your lord festered in a hole.’

  Hemming laughed. ‘That was your own fault, Eofer. If you had been patient and not tried to escape, we would have had you out sooner.’

  As the laughter trailed away, the easy mood changed abruptly as the pair recognised just how close to home they had ridden. Hemming was the first to break the silence, as he sought to ease the burden from his lord’s mind.

  ‘It was a close call, lord,’ he said, as the horses picked their way up the final ridge. ‘Another few weeks and she might have been a duguth.’ Thrush Hemming lowered his voice, leaning across his saddle despite the fact that they were the only living things in sight. ‘The hand of Woden was in that too, Eofer,’ he said with reverence. ‘His name means fury, and that’s what Rand got.’