Dayraven

by C. R. May

  Hygelac watched as the leading horsemen of the Francish army shook themselves free of the tree cover and came on, straight down the road which led to their position. Resplendent in highly polished scale armour, the leading warriors drew to a halt one hundred paces ahead of the Geat war flag, their herebeacn, as riders bearing the emblems of the tribes of the Francish peoples moved forward to enclose them in a crescent of brilliant colour. To their rear a seemingly never ending column of armoured warriors spewed forth from the shadows and uncurled themselves, serpent-like, across the face of the water meadow. It was, Hygelac had to admit, a breathtaking display of martial prowess.

  A freshening wind had sprung up from the West, driving away the earlier clamminess, and the flags and long tailed draco of the Francs curled and snapped out their defiance at the watching Geats. High above, serried ranks of ragged dark clouds dashed on eastwards and a low mournful howl came from the polished heads of the Francish draco as the breeze searched out gaping mouths.

  Hygelac leaned across to his hearth warrior, Thurgar, and winked.

  “I love those draco. I think that we should mount one as a trophy back of Gefrin. It is time to offer a little incentive to the boys.”

  Stepping out Hygelac smiled and walked confidently along the face of the Geat line. The warriors turned to face him one by one as word spread among them that their king was about to address the shield wall.

  “Aren't they pretty!” he cried as he swept his arm to the South; “It is obvious now why they waited the whole summer before they managed to summon up the courage to face our little raid,” he grinned, “they were waiting for their women to finish making the pretty flags!” A murmur of laughter came from the ranks as he continued. “I especially like those draco of theirs. For those of you who are unsure which ones I mean they are the brass dragon heads with the long flowing silk tails. I especially like the way that they howl as the wind passes through them,” he paused to smirk mischievously along the shield wall, “they remind me of the Cwen, my lovely wife,” he grinned as a rumble of laughter rolled along the line. “In fact,” he cried, “I like them so much that I am willing to offer a hoard to the man who can bring one of those draco safely to my hall at Gefrin.” Hygelac unfastened his helm and removed it. Tossing it high into the air he snatched it back as it fell and held it high. “Now I am sure that many of you think that the king has a big head,” he smiled, “and today you could be thankful for it.” Hygelac could see that the men were intrigued now as an excited chatter began to pass along the line and he cried out to ensure that every man heard his offer. “The man who brings me that gift will receive payment in gold, enough to fill this helm to the brim!” Astonished gasps left the mouths of the Geat warriors. For many of them the king was offering to pay more than a man could expect to accomplish from a lifetime of toil.

  Hygelac replaced his helm and addressed the animated shield wall.

  “They look great in number these Francs but they are not Geats!” he cried.

  Hygelac picked out the leader of the scouts from earlier that morning to drive his point home.

  “Einar Haraldson!”

  “Yes, lord!” the man beamed proudly.

  “How many men were in this Franc scouting party which you intercepted this morning?”

  “Twelve, Lord, two of the riders detached themselves and withdrew before we were able to close with them, so we fought against ten Francish scouts.”

  Hygelac looked up melodramatically.

  “They were hardly confident of victory then?”

  Einar grinned and shook his head.

  “It would seem not, lord,” he agreed.

  A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the flatlands from the West as the clouds darkened and swept down on them. Hygelac glanced across and back to the Geat line.

  “It would seem that Thunor has come to watch our battle-play today,” he smiled. “I will have to double the guard on the ale supplies!” The red bearded god was famous for his feats of eating and ale drinking and the warriors roared with laughter at their king's quip. Hygelac looked back to Einar and continued his interrogation of that morning's clash.

  “How many men accompanied you and the English friends I see standing resolutely beside you, Offa and Oslaf , this morning Einar?”

  “My kinsman Gunnar Gunnarson, lord, no other.”

  “He fell?”

  “Yes, lord, sword in hand.”

  Hygelac nodded and lowered his voice in respect for the fallen scout.

  “Then he sups in valhall as we speak,” he replied sombrely.

  Hygelac scanned the battle hardened ranks of Geats arrayed before him and raised his voice once more, ensuring that the facts of the encounter carried to all of the listening warriors.

  “Tell us Einar, how many of these Francs survived meeting two Geats and two Engles on the road?”

  Einar pulled himself erect as he proudly responded.

  “We left none alive, lord!”

  The warriors of the Geat shield wall responded with a roar as they acknowledged the bravery and fighting prowess which the scouts had displayed in their victory against such odds. Hygelac smiled to himself and waited for the clamour to abate. All along the line the warriors were beating their spears against shield rims and calling challenges to the silent ranks of the Francish army opposite. Fat drops of rain began to patter the dusty ground around them and Hygelac flicked a look of thanks up to Thunor, the Thunderer. The storm would be a piddling affair but even a misting of damp on top of the grassy meadow would be enough to make an attacker slip and slide. The king judged the moment had come to conclude his battle speech and he turned back to the men.

  “Einar and his men proved this morning that each man here is worth at least ten Francish warriors. Thunor has now ensured that they will have to scramble up a greasy slope and scale a muddy bank before they swim across and climb another, even muddier bank, topped by a line of warriors who are so big and ugly that only a mother could love them!” he roared, “and their king of course!” He cried above the answering uproar. Hygelac smiled happily as he strode back across to his position on the bridge to the acclamation of his men. The storm, such as it was, was passing now and the angry black clouds were edged with gold as the sunlight forced its way through. To the West an indigo sky lay marbled with small white clouds promising another fine day.

  “That was a generous offer, lord!” Thurgar smiled as Hygelac took back his shield and regained his position beneath the herebeacn. Hygelac threw his hearth warrior a wry smile.

  “Not really, if I get back to Gefrin it will be a small price to pay. If I don't I shan't have to pay anyway!” he chuckled.

  The sound of singing carried up to the Geat position and Hygelac turned back quizzically. A line of men had advanced proud of the Francish front ranks holding aloft flags bearing the mark of the cross as others dressed in the black garb of the Francish priests seemed to be casting protective spells on their warriors. Hygelac turned and called to one of his men as he watched the strange rites.

  “Tofi, you talked to the crow-wizards we took. What are they doing down there?”

  Tofi called across from his position to the king's right.

  “They are singing a type of chant to their god which they call a hymn, lord. The priests are using the wands to flick 'holy water' onto the warriors as a magic charm of protection.”

  Hygelac shrugged, obviously unimpressed. “Is that so. If I had not just gone I could have flicked some of my own holy water at them,” he grinned.

  As the men of Hygelac's comitatus laughed at the joke a fire arrow arced into the sky from the right of their position. The king looked across and was surprised to see a small knot of horsemen on the far bank about half a mile downstream. Deliberately placed beyond the line of the embankment they would be able to see both the army of the Francs and the town of Dorestada from their location. He had not noticed them there before and he wondered at their actions. As he did so a section of the army of the F
rancs gave a great cheer and started to move forward to begin an attack. Hygelac was about to move forward to the far end of the bridge and take up the position of greatest danger and honour when Thurgar caught his arm.

  “Lord!”

  His battle rage building now the king turned angrily to confront his man and was faced by a breathless and obviously terror stricken warrior he had never seen before. The warrior bowed his head and waited for permission to speak.

  “Well, what is it?” Hygelac snapped impatiently.

  The warrior swallowed hard and, obviously fighting to retain his composure, replied.

  “Lord. Ealdorman Hromund has sent me to report that a large army is moving through the town and is about to engage his forces in Dorstada. He has pulled his warriors together and fallen back on the bridge. He will hold the bridge for as long as he can unless he receives other orders from you.”

  Hygelac's thoughts swam for a heartbeat as he began to realise that he had been out thought for the first and, it would seem likely, the last time. As the men surrounding him looked on incredulously the king managed to ask the question which was on every man's lips.

  “Do we know who this army belongs to?”

  The warrior nodded sullenly and replied.

  “They fight under the banner of the sea eagle, lord.”

  Hygelac gasped in disbelief.

  “Frisians?”

  4

  Beowulf gripped the long upward sweep of the stern post and hauled himself up onto the wale. Cupping his hand to his mouth he called across to the figure on the steering platform of the dracca which was breasting the waves to steerboard.

  “We will away now, lord. Save some gold for us!”

  King Hygelac waved from the deck of his dracca, the Swan, and grinning widely, replied to his nephew.

  “The gods are with you Beowulf. We will see you in Dorestada after the solstice.”

  Beowulf took a last look around the Geatish fleet and hauled on the great steer board. The conditions were just right to enable him to leave the other ships with the maximum amount of show. It was childish he knew but great fun just the same.

  The Geatish fleet had left their home waters in early summer and, rounding the tip of Jute Land to the West, came about and headed south under a freshening wind. On the morning of the third day at sea the wind had veered around to the north-west and Harald, Hygelac's ship master, had led the fleet out into the German Sea to keep well clear of a lee shore. Beowulf had approved. The ships and crews of the fleet were of varying quality and a group of ships this large would be unwieldy at the best of times. With the wind now blowing directly towards what would be, for most crews, an unfamiliar coast, the margin for any error could vanish with frightening speed. Providing the vast invasion fleet with plenty of sea room was obviously the answer and Beowulf chuckled as he recognised the ships unconsciously begin to huddle closer together for safety as the distant coastline diminished and finally disappeared from view altogether.

  The prow of Wave Dancer described an arc in the sky ahead and came on to her new heading. With the wind now gusting up from full astern Beowulf ordered the sail fully deployed and sheeted home as the ship filled her great white lung and surged ahead. Her new course would take her straight through the ships of the fleet and Beowulf laughed joyfully as he plotted his course between the other ships. Already he could see several anxious crews casting a look in their direction as Wave Dancer bore down on them in a cloud of spray.

  The ship was almost one winter old now and Beowulf was inordinately proud of her. Following his victorious return from Dane Land loaded with the treasure gifted by a grateful King Hrothgar, King Hygelac had confirmed his elevation to ealdorman of the Waegmundings as was his birthright. He had travelled north to the hall of the new king of Swedes, Ohthere, and celebrated the winter solstice and Yule with his betrothed, the king's daughter, Halldis.

  Returning to Geatland that spring he had taken his father's old ship, the Griffon, down to the town of Domburg in Frisland. It was here that Beowulf had led the men who were to accompany him to confront the monster Grendel as he sought to bond them to one another before they sailed to face the fiend. They had sailed to Britannia to kill a band of Wealh, British, pirates and Beowulf had been impressed with the quality and skills shown by the shipbuilders in the port. A purse of gold had been enough to persuade the master builder to stop all other work and construct a dracca in record time for the Geat lord.

  Beowulf marvelled at the results of their labours once again from his place on the steering platform as he darted through the ships of the fleet. Fully eighty feet in length and fourteen feet wide athwart the mast, the Wave Dancer had rowing stations for fourteen pairs of rowers along each side. Constructed of the finest close grained oak from the great forests of Francland her shallow keel made her ideal for the river work which she was about to undertake on behalf of her people.

  Once the ship was complete Beowulf had taken her north to Noregr. There the heavy knarrs, the trading ships, were lightly crewed and a device called a wind lash had been developed to compensate for the lack of muscle power in the heavy seas thereabouts. Situated on the steering platform, the wind lash was attached to the ends of the yard by the braces, the ropes which control the angle of the yard to the wind. It was unusual to find a wind lash on a ship in the more heavily manned ships of the southern German Sea but the addition had given the ship its name. By doing the work of half a dozen men, twice as quickly, the sail could be brought into wind in a heartbeat, sending the craft dancing across the waves as others floundered in her wake.

  Now, driving before the wind, the Wave Dancer bucked and heaved like a war stallion at full gallop, her great oak keel groaning and sighing as she threaded her way through the slowly moving ships to the accompaniment of cheers, waves and catcalls from the men of the fleet. Bursting through the last of them like a deer breaking cover the ship bounded forward and drew swiftly away.

  Beowulf looked back at the ships, forging south under shortened sails and wished them luck. It would be at least a month before he saw them again.

  “Well, at least we know our fate if we are not welcome, lord.” Beowulf's hearth warrior, Gunnar, had moved to his side as the ship wallowed in the ebb tide at the mouth of the River Wisera. They had arrived in the estuary in the early evening and, finding the current against them, had shortened sail and kept station with gentle strokes of the oars. The Wave Dancer was long and lean, as slippery as any eel, and the waters of the river slid easily past her as they emptied themselves into the great German Sea beyond. It was easy work to keep station and the majority of the crew were lounging amidships as they waited for the tide to turn and carry them deep into the land of the Saxons. Beowulf snorted at the comment.

  “We have been in far more dangerous situations than this Gunnar and yet we still live. We have a warloca with us now,” he smiled, “it would be a foolish Saxon who would risk the displeasure of Woden for the sake of gold and silver.”

  Gunnar had been referring to the withy cages and their skeletal inhabitants which stood as a warning to interlopers to the Saxon lands. Fixed on stout wooden stakes, the cages had been set to such a height that they would become submerged by the tide as it ebbed and flowed. Once the cold waters had done their work the attentions of birds, crabs and the elements had quickly reduced the unfortunate occupants to a macabre collection of bleached and weathered bones.

  A cry came from amidships and Beowulf smiled as he recognised the braying laugh of his big English hearth warrior, Cola. By the looks of disgust on the faces of the other players his looks had proven deceptive once again and the apparently oafish Englishman was busy scraping his winnings together with his huge paddle-like hands.

  More surprising had been the friendship which had struck up between his remaining hearth warrior, the Swede Hrafn, and the Danish warloca Unferth. Unferth had initially been reluctant to accept their presence in the kingdom when they had travelled to Heorot to confront the monster Grend
el but, Beowulf had to admit, the holy man had shown great strength of character by publicly admitting his error of judgement.

  Beowulf had been frankly shocked when the Dane had arrived at his hall in Geatland that spring. He had confided in him that the Allfather had instructed that he bring the head of the hel fiend, Grendel, to the great midsummer ceremonies in the Osning, the holy place, in far off Saxland. Woden had instructed him that he was to ensure that Beowulf escort him in his task and that he remain at the place of worship for the duration of the solstice rites.

  To Beowulf's astonishment King Hygelac had waved away his request to leave the planned invasion of Frisland before he had half completed his explanation. Beowulf had expected to lead the ship borne contingent of the army from Wave Dancer and he was, he had to admit, more than a little disappointed at his uncle's willingness to lose him from the force, even at the behest of a god. He recognised that his fame had spread throughout the northern lands after the events at Heorot and, later, at the mere of Nykken Force but he reluctantly accepted the fact that the experience in brokering the peace between the Geats and the Swedes after the events at Ravenswood had left him better equipped than most warriors to be tasked with the tactful duty of dealing with the Saxons. He was of course disgruntled nevertheless to be missing the fighting.

  The sun was falling away to the West in a blaze of ochre as the tide finally stilled and reversed itself. At the cusp of the change a ship, a fine dracca, had detached itself from the land and swept into mid stream. They watched as the light from the setting sun flashed and danced on the oar blades as, rising and falling in time, the Saxon ship came down upon them. Beowulf had ordered the beast head stowed amidships as they had approached the land to announce to both the land spirits and the watching Saxon warriors that they came with peaceful intent. The Saxons would no doubt be curious as to the identity of the men on this lithe warship, and Beowulf hoped that they would be spending the night ashore once the reason for their journey had been made clear. Beowulf handed the great steering board to Gunnar and donned his red leather war shirt and cloak. Moving to the rear of the steering platform he watched as the Saxon ship master ordered his men to back oars and take the way off the ship as it glided alongside. A broad chested warrior moved to the side of the dracca and Beowulf smiled to himself as he recognised the weather worn, open features which seemed to unite the brotherhood of ship reeves all over the northern kingdoms. The reeve hailed them.