by C. R. May
The Danes had disappeared from sight, and Eofer relaxed his guard slightly as he wondered at the detail revealed on the great hall by the returning light. Serpents, dragons and otherworldly monsters writhed about the eves and walls while, moving his eyes towards the doorway itself, he noticed for the first time that they were flanked by twin figures of great height. Nearest to him, beneath a waxy sheen of the reddest gold, the recumbent figure of Sceaf nestled among great stands of barley. The foundling had washed ashore to found many of the northern folk, the English included, and he hoped that the old king would understand his action to come. On the far side of the doorway glowered the figure of a great warrior, his oversized shield held resolutely before him. It was obviously a representation of the founder of the Danish clan of the Scyldings, Scyld himself. Eofer was under no illusion that Scyld would be so understanding about what was to follow. Capping it all, beyond the great golden antlers, the roof of Heorot shone a dazzling bronze as the returning sun lit the tiles there with its glow. Hemming was wrong, he reflected. Heorot really was a wonder of the North.
A horse left the shadow of the northern palisade and galloped away towards the fires of distant Hroar's Kilde sending the knots of town folk scattering away from its path, and his mind snapped back. One of the Danes had obviously been sent to recall the guard and he cursed. They must have missed a gateway in the night. A saying of the Allfather came to him, and he recognised the truth of the warning as he sent two of the youth to make a fast circuit of the hall.
All the entrances, before you walk forward,
you should look at, you should spy out;
For you can't know for certain where enemies are sitting ahead in the hall.
Eofer hurried across as the men of his troop manhandled the great oak bench into position before the doors. Thrush Hemming looked over as he came up; “Cunning bastards the Danes.” He spat on his palms as he prepared to heft the bench and begin the assault on the great doors. “They have made the benches so long that there is no room to take a run at the doors without having to go down the steps.” He indicated the massive iron hinges set into the oak door posts with a jerk of his head. “You can still see where the monster smashed them open though, look.” Great wedges of newer oak, butter yellow streaked a muddy brown by the tannin which leached from the wood, had been scarfed in to the steel grey posts to replace those torn asunder by the inhuman strength of the Grendel troll several years before. Hemming set to and gripped the bench as Octa and the remaining youth braced to lift the great weight. His broad shoulders rose and fell as he drew in great breaths in preparation for the lift and swing. Eofer ran his eyes across the great doors and took a pace forwards. Octa and the youth, still poised at their places, watched him go.
“Right, you lot,” Hemming snorted like a bull. “After three!”
Eofer placed the tip of Blood-Worm onto the leaf of the door and gave a push. The door swung silently inward on its greased hinges and all but Hemming slowly straightened, their mouths agape. Oblivious, the duguth reached three and hauled his end into the air, the muscles on his neck and shoulders standing proud like a tangle of knotted ropes at his single-handed effort. He managed to spit out an exhortation through gritted teeth as his face came up, “come on, come on..,” before he too opened his eyes and a look of disbelief and embarrassment swept his features.
Eofer quickly checked the shadows and, reassured that no Danes lurked immediately within, his mouth widened into a grin. Hemming recovered quickly as he let the bench drop with a boom which echoed through the empty hall. The duguth's expression became deadpan, sweeping the happily smiling faces of his companions with a look as the tension of the morning found an outlet. “What?” he said, his tone innocence itself. “I knew.”
Eofer gave his weorthman's shoulder an affectionate squeeze and passed beneath the lintel and into hall itself. His men hurried in his wake and fanned out protectively as their shields came together with a clatter of lime wood. Spearhafoc, her bow strung, an arrow nocked and ready to loose, scurried across to the flank and quartered the gloom with deliberate movements of her head. Eofer stood at the point which the English called ord, the very tip of the boar snout as he searched out the benches for any signs of opposition. Ahead of him twin lines of pillars bestrode the long central hearth, marching away to the king's dais at the head of the room and the golden gift-stool of the Danes which crowned it. To its rear an empty space on the wall, square shaped and pale, showed where the war flag of King Hrothgar had rested before it had been taken down to accompany its owner south. A small knot of thræls knelt in the lightest part of the hall, their hands splayed out on the floor before them to show that they were unarmed and offered no threat to the invaders.
Eofer called out, his voice booming in the great space. “Wulf? Wulf Wonreding?”
One of the slaves slowly raised an arm and pointed towards a curtained off area tucked away in the corner of Heorot, and a grin of anticipation illuminated Eofer's face as he rushed across and threw back the covering. “Wulf, you are free!”
His brother looked up and smirked as he gripped the young woman by the hips and thrust again, the curving whiteness of her cheeks rippling as their bodies came together with a wet slap. Eofer's mouth opened in surprise as Wulf threw him a wink. “Help yourself to Hrothgar's ale. I will be with you soon, I am nearly finished.”
SIXTEEN
The boy shifted to one side, peering past the bough as he looked down from the treetop. “Yes, lord, I can see them. About a mile away, coming up fast.”
Eofer squinted up against the harsh winter light. “You are sure that it is Imma and his Saxon friends?”
Bassa cocked a brow, and a twinkle of amusement came into his eyes as a peel of laughter rolled around the group.
The eorle's mouth broadened into a smile. “I know. You are not a wizard, but you do have keen eyesight.”
The boy grinned as Thrush Hemming explained to his lord's mystified brother about their previous exchange at the masthead following the storm in the German Sea. All eyes now strained to see through the pockets of mist which clung to the hollows and groves, as the sound of hooves on cold earth began to carry to them. The sun had cleared the eastern horizon now and, even in the frigid air of the northern winter, its warmth was beginning to burn off the milky veil which had covered the land in the night. Bassa shinned down the trunk and swung himself back into the saddle.
Wulf urged his mount forward and came abreast of his brother and Thrush Hemming as they stared to the West. “It's a burning land. We had better not let them catch us.” Eofer was about to reply that he would never give the Danes the chance of taking him alive when he caught his tongue. Wulf had been taken of course, it was the reason that they had made this dangerous journey. His brother had not told the tale of his capture, that would come soon, hopefully this day.
Eofer inhaled deeply and fancied that he could catch a whiff of the smoke which clouded the western skies. Ahead of them the pall of smoke which drifted slowly northwards from the anchorage at Hroar's Kilde was lessening now as the Danes fought the fires with the water to hand. He smiled as an image of lines of men and women snaking up from the waters of the fjord came to him, icy water spilling from hastily swung pails as the grim faced inhabitants began to wilt after their nightlong effort.
Further west, a grey smudge on the horizon marked the death of Hrothgar's stud and the little port where they had stormed ashore at the beginning of the night. The Fælcen would be little more than another skeleton of charred timber now at the base of the column, but he smiled again with pride as he recalled the final moments he had spent on the little scegth. She had borne down on their fiend like her namesake, her battle flag snaking forward proudly in the following wind, unstoppable. It had been a fitting end, the death of a hero, an eorle's scip, and he felt a warm sense of pride that he had saved her from the end which awaited so many vessels; broken up to feed the flames, another anonymous wreck on the strand. Past glories forgotten as the m
en who had sailed her slowly lost their own struggle with the passage of time.
Eofer turned his head to the south-west as the sound of hooves grew louder and the men of his troop fingered their sword hilts. The thegn saw their preparedness and was pleased. Bassa had the eyes of a hawk, but it still paid to be sure. The pyre which had been Heorot, the hall of the Hart, still burned brightly on its mound. A turgid column of thick black smoke billowed up from the noble structure, angry yellow tongues of flame dancing at its base, and he thought on their actions with more than a tinge of regret. Hundreds of men had laboured for thousands of hours to construct the great building. Trees had been chosen, cut, trimmed and chased. Wealhtheow, Hrothgar's cwen, must have bent her back with her ladies as, needle in hand, she had crafted the magnificent tapestries which had festooned the walls. The statue of Scyld was already in flames when they had taken a final look and turned their mounts to the gatehouse. He was a Scylding, he deserved his fate, but what of Sceaf? He resolved to offer sacrifice to the ancestor of the English kings as soon as he was able.
Wulf prodded his arm, he seemed to have been reading his mind. “What do you think that our kinsman would have made of our work here this day?”
Eofer snorted as he watched the spreading cloud. “He forged his reputation in the place, but it was just a shell. Woden himself told Beowulf that cattle and kinsman die, as he shall himself, but glory never dies for the man who is able to achieve it in his lifetime.” He shrugged. “I think that you are right to talk of him as a shade. It's been months since he was last seen, a warrior of his fame and renown must be in Valhall.” He threw his brother a sidelong look. “Now we have added to ours, for good or ill.”
Shadowy shapes appeared on the road, hardening in moments into the forms of their friends. Bassa's eyesight had triumphed again, and Eofer instinctively totted the heads as the men were reunited after the trials and worries of the night before and found them to be light.
Imma Gold walked his mount across, his eyes rimmed scarlet by smoky air. “You were successful then, lord,” he said as he nodded a greeting to Wulf. “I am glad.” Eofer's expression told of his concern and Imma nodded grimly. “Three of the Saxon lads and Æsc.” The duguth held the brothers with an impassive stare. “He may have been a youth, but he died like a man.”
Imma and his men hauled at their reins, turning the heads of their mounts back to the West. The group, reunited for the first time since they had left the landing place, gazed in awe at their night's work as Oswin's words floated over them.
“This is not the eastern dawn, no dragon flies there,
the antlered one towered, golden backed;
its gables shone 'till the bane of the battle-boar set pride to ash, fed the Hart to the destroyer of wood…”
Eofer twisted in the saddle and looked at his youth in astonishment. “Oswin, that was wordcræft.” The lad basked in the judgement of his eorle as the remainder of the troop gaped. Wulf nodded as Eofer urged his mount forward, “That's a fine talent you have boy.” Slipping a gold ring from his finger, Eofer handed it to the delighted youth. “That was well said, you do me honour.” Oswin beamed with pride and Eofer exchanged a glance with Octa and saw the pride reflected there as he led the riders eastwards. He was proud of them both. Octa's careful tuition was turning the young man into a valuable member of the war-band and he was pleased to see the new-found respect for their companion illuminate the faces of the youth.
The road before them passed away through a small settlement before leading, arrow straight, across a heathland and becoming lost among the tree covered slopes of a shallow ridge. Eofer put spur to horse and led them away. “Let's go,” he cried, as the men exchanged grins and funnelled in his wake, “before Oswin silk-tongue has to make a stanza describing Hrothgar's revenge!”
Clattering through the settlement, Eofer was only dimly aware of the frightened faces which peered out from the doorways before they were through and crossing the heathland beyond. Gulls called above as they neared the coast and, clearing the ridge, Eofer reined in and waited for the rest to come up and take in the welcome sight. A wide beach, its sandy crescent arcing away to north and south, lay spread out before the battle-troop and Eofer smiled with pride and relief as the men looked upon their salve.
A magnificent snake ship rode at anchor just off shore, the great curve of her prow wallowing in the swell; the familiar beast which capped it seeming to nod in recognition with the rise and fall of the sea. Eofer led the riders down onto the strand as the anchor was hauled and oars were slipped into tholepins. Eadward grinned and waved from the prow as the snaca drew close to the shore and, their charges safely in sight, the white dragon of Engeln unfurled at the mast-head.
The eorle dismounted and moved forward with a heavy heart to tease his horse's ears as his subdued men gathered their war gear and said their goodbyes to their own mounts. The pale autumnal sunlight glinted from polished steel as the blade was withdrawn and slipped upwards. As the horse's eyes went wide and its nostrils flared with surprise and shock, the blade was drawn across and a hot jet of blood pulsed out to darken the sand.
SEVENTEEN
The riders walked their mounts along the track and turned off at the brook. As one of the men ran ahead to slip the rope and swing the gate open, they clicked their tongues and came into the field. “Here she is, lord.” Osric sucked in his breath in admiration. “She's a real beauty, she is. Been saving her for a special occasion.”
Eofer pulled his horse to one side and ran his eyes over the tree as the shipwright pointed out the oak to his gang of artisans. “There, that’s the one. Get yourself across and get everything ready. We'll be along soon.” Osric rejoined Eofer and Sæward as the goad flicked out above the oxen, and the heavy wagon began to lurch across the field on its big, solid wheels. Iron rimmed, they would need their strength if they were to carry the roughly hewn timbers back to the yard for final trimming. Osric turned back with a smile. “When the king sent word that he wanted a fine ship built, with no expense spared, I knew straight away where I would be heading.”
It was the week before Yule and the ground beneath them was as hard as any stone. A cold snap had descended on the land as soon as Eadward and his crew had carried them safely back to the English coast and on down the waters of the Sley to Sleyswic itself. King Eomær had feasted the brothers' triumphant return that evening, and the aged timbers of Eorthdraca had resounded to the sound of hundreds of warriors celebrating the burning of their fiend's hall of Heorot. It had gone some way to lessening the loss of their Heathobeard allies who had been soundly defeated by King Hrothgar's army even as Hleidra and Hroar's Kilde burned.
Eadward's snake ship had cut through the disordered remnants of the War-Beard fleet as they had fled back to their southern coast in defeat but, to Eofer's surprise, the news of King Ingeld's death at the hands of the Danes had received little more than a shrug of indifference from the English king. Shorn now of allies he had explained, he had no need to share his plans or aims with others. The English had always been at their best standing alone with their backs to the wall. King Offa had dealt their rivals, the Myrgings, such a blow at Monster Gate that they had never ventured near to the southern bank of the River Egedore ever again. Within a generation their lands had been added to those of the English. He would smite the Danes in the spring as the people left for the new lands across the German Sea, before the army embarked and followed on.
Osric spoke again, cutting into his thoughts. “It's all ready for you, lord.”
Eofer dismounted and walked across. The ground rose gently as it approached the outliers of the Wolds, and the eorle saw to his astonishment that Osric's men had already cut back a barrel shaped area where the tree would fall.
“Lucky for you, lord,” Osric added as they approached the base of the tree, “this is the best time of the year to fell.” He scratched at several days' growth which stubbled his chin as he spoke. “It's always best when the leaves are off the tree and
the undergrowth has died back. The sap in the tree withdraws into the trunk as the cold weather begins to bite. Drier wood is always easier to cut than sappy.” Several of the artisans had dug out and hacked away smaller trees and saplings which had grown in the shadow of the oak, and one of them grinned and gave the thumbs up as the pair approached. “They are working like dæmons today, lord,” the shipwright chuckled, “there's not much daylight at this time of the year and there's Yule ale to sample back at the yard.” Osric took up an axe which had been placed against the trunk in readiness and tested the edge with a brush of his thumb. Satisfied that the blade was keen, he pointed to a small knot roughly waist high on the uphill side of the trunk. “Cut the first notch, what we call a kerf, there. Remember what we discussed, lord,” he said. “Keep the bottom cut perfectly horizontal and cut down to it when you are about a third of the way into the trunk.”
Eofer spat on his hands and gripped the haft, flashing Osric's men a grin as goodnatured laughter rolled around the group. He worked his shoulders, warming muscles against the chill and cut the air with the axe. The axe head sank deeply into the stem and he worked it loose and swung again, the first chips flying as the new ship was birthed. Under the watchful eye of Osric and his men the kerf was soon cut and Eofer stood, glistening with sweat, his body steaming like a bull in the coldness of the day. The sky was a deep indigo above them as he handed the axe across to Sæward who would be cutting the second kerf on the opposite side of the trunk. A clamour of rooks finally seemed to accept the inevitable, reluctantly giving up their chosen roost in the canopy of the great oak. In a thunderhead of beating wings the dark birds rose cawing into the chill air, circling noisily overhead as the ship master swung and swung again.