by C. R. May
Osric's men had made a pyre of the raked up undergrowth and wind fallen branches which had littered the floor, and Eofer went across as Sæward worked. One of the artisans handed him a cup of ale and he sank it in one. “Thirsty work!” he grinned as he held out the cup for a refill, the chorus of agreement from the experienced woodcutters cut off as Osric called across to Eofer's man. “That's deep enough, Sæward, or you will be wearing your new ship on your head!” The men laughed as the ship master began to cut down to form the wedge and Eofer tore at a hunk of bread and cheese as he watched. The simple fare and hard physical toil were invigorating, and the thegn found to his surprise that he was enjoying the work immensely.
“Do you want to bring her down or shall I lord?”
Eofer nodded and mumbled through a mouthful. “I will share the honour with Sæward.”
“Right you are. When he is finished there, both go back to the first kerf and cut upwards towards the base of the second. It's only a foot higher so be ready to move back over here when I shout a warning. The tree will fall into the first notch and land up slope.” He rubbed his hands vigorously together as the cold began to bite. The sun was low on the southern horizon, its weak light casting long shadows across the field. “We always fell up slope if the wind direction permits. You'd be surprised just how far a bucking tree can bounce once she gets going.” He held up a finger and listened but no sound came from his companions. “Not even a snigger!” he exclaimed with a look of surprise. “They must be keen to be away, lord!” The dull sound of iron biting wood stopped suddenly and Osric nodded. “Here, he's ready.”
The pair walked across to the oak, and Osric watched as Eofer and his duguth took up position on either side of the lower notch. “Remember,” he said as he backed away, “when I say so, get yourself back across to me and the lads as quick as you can. Roots can flick up out of the ground without much warning as she goes down.” He clutched at his groin and grimaced. “Be a shame to look on as your balls sail off over the Wolds without you!”
Eofer and Sæward exchanged a look and spat on their palms as the shipwright inclined his head and moved to a safer distance. “After you, lord.”
Eofer heft the axe and swung, angling the head upwards as wood chips filled the air. Soon they were finding the rhythm, alternating strokes as the great bole of the tree groaned ominously. The sharp tang of tannin and sap hung in the air as they worked, and Eofer risked a glance across to the bellicose sea bird he had brought for the blooding. They had discussed the name of the new ship for weeks, and Eofer had all but decided that the name Fælcen had served them as well as any other and that he was of a mind to retain it for the new ship. But a voice had piped up at the back, and a smile had slowly formed upon Eofer's lips as he thought on Osric's suggestion. They had all seen the bird harrying much larger gulls, inches above the waves, and coming away with their catch. It was the perfect name for an English scegth, and the answering smiles on the faces of the men of his troop had confirmed the choice. Now the new Skua was in the process of being hatched.
Without warning the axehead stuck as the body of the trunk pinched tightly around it, and Osric's voice cut across the pasture. “That will do you, there. Work your axe out and get yourselves back over here, sharpish.” Eofer and Sæward hurried across, glancing back as the great bulk of the oak began its death plunge. The tree moved slowly at first, but as its weight moved past the centre line a great crack rent the air and it crashed to the ground in an explosion of dead wood and leaves.
As soon as the tree was still, Osric's men were swarming forward to begin their work. Eofer wiped the sweat from his brow as he took a cup of ale and sank it in one. To his surprise he saw that a look of sadness had come to the face of the shipwright. Osric noticed Eofer's questioning look and he gave a snort and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, lord,” he said. “I always feel a pang of regret when a tree falls. When you work with wood day-in day-out, you get to appreciate what magnificent things trees are.” The men were already teeming over the great trunk, axes rising and falling as they trimmed the boughs of their smaller side branches. “This one in particular,” he explained as they walked across. “To a shipwright's eye it is almost a ship already. Because it stood alone, isolated from other trees, the lower branches had the room to push outwards as they grew before they started to grow upwards. See the curve which results?” he explained as he followed the graceful outline of the bough with his finger. “Spot on for fashioning into the ribs of a ship. Those big ones, right at the bottom, they will be the prow and stern of the Skua, and we'll scarf them to a single run from the trunk itself to form the keel plate. With a tree like this one, lord,” he smiled in admiration, “even the side strakes will be formed from one continuous piece of timber. In a heavy sea she'll flex and twist like a sausage on a griddle,” he chuckled, “but snap back into shape in the blink of an eye.” Osric looked at the pair and they saw the pride shining in his eyes as he held their gaze. “This will be the finest ship that I will ever build, lord, the culmination of a lifetime spent in the yards. She'll be ready to take her first dip within the month, you can count on it.”
*
The sun had laboured to its zenith as Grimwulf slipped out of his tunic and kicked his shoes under the bench. Twisting his upper body and rolling his neck and shoulders, he proceeded to flex and stretch his wiry frame.
“What's he doing?”
Eofer took another pull from his cup and shifted on the log. Wherever he sat the knot seemed to follow him regardless. “Ritual is important. It concentrates your thoughts on the task ahead, you should know that, Thrush.”
“Do you think he will do it?”
“He better had,” Eofer replied. “I have wagered a gold ring with Coelwulf that he will. If he loses he could find himself back shovelling horse shit all day!”
With Æsc's death on the Hleidra raid and a new ship to crew, Imma Gold had persuaded Eofer to offer the lad a place at the hearth. Despite Grimwulf's lack of experience fighting with a war-band, the duguth had told his eorle that he had acted with bravery and aggression during the fighting at the anchorage. Grimwulf had leapt at the chance and, as his Saxon friends had trudged away to home and freedom down The Oxen Way, he had accompanied his new brothers north. Now he was set to become a highlight of the Yule Day celebrations and Eofer hoped for all their sakes that the boy knew what he was doing. He had never witnessed a man race a horse before and he was as intrigued as anyone to see the result.
After the windblown chaos of the previous night, Yule Day had dawned gull grey, strips of clouds, ragged edged, clearing away to the north-east in a gusting wind. The good folk of Engeln had sat out the night as King Herla led his Wild Hunt through the skies as he had done each and every Yule Eve as far back as the tales of the scops could tell. Herla was one of the many names which Woden had taken as he passed through Middle-earth on his wanderings, and the violence of the ride foretold the year ahead. This year the people had cowered in their huts and halls as the spectral horses and hounds had howled through the sky. The thegns and ealdormen who had been present at the king's great symbel in Eorthdraca in the presence of the god had smiled with pleasure. War was coming, and soon. They would repay the Danes tenfold for the humiliations heaped upon them before they left for the new land.
The people had risen before the dawn and travelled with their families to the meadow near to the sacred grove at Thunorsleah. It was the place where the people of the western Wolds gathered on the shortest and longest days of the year to feast and show honour to the gods. Strong Yule ale would be sunk, games played and old friendships and alliances reaffirmed. It was a day of fun and laughter as the people came together with their gods to welcome the return of the sun at the dawn of the new year.
The stallion which was to race Eofer's youth was already set in position, a helper struggling to hold the bit as the horse, excited by the hubbub which surrounded it, snorted and tossed its head, pawing at the turf. Its owner was already set in the sadd
le waiting for the off, and they watched as he craned forward and attempted to calm the steed with soft words.
Thrush Hemming pulled a face as they watched, jutting his ale sodden chin towards the skittish animal. “He's a bit spunky that one. Looks like you are going to be a ring light tonight, lord.” He nudged his eorle with his elbow and shot him a smile as he pointed to the heavy band on Eofer's finger. “Shall I have a quick whip around the lads, see if anyone has something smaller?”
Eofer nodded earnestly to Grimwulf as he flashed the thumbs up and trotted across to the start line. “No, but you can refill this for me and then bring it over. I am going across to watch this wonder of speed for myself. Our boy is going to win, I am sure of it.” Eofer hauled himself from the log and walked across to the place where the men of his troop had gathered to cheer on their new member.
Sæward looked sceptical. “Can't be done.”
Eofer nodded and replied with a confidence which was growing within him by the moment. “You'll see.”
Hemming returned with the cups as Eofer's father, Wonred, came forward and a silence slowly descended on the gathering. The ealdorman's voice boomed out across the clearing as he explained the unusual event.
“To the glory of Woden and all the gods,” he paused theatrically as he swept his arms wide, “we have a race!” The crowd cheered and Wonred waited, his face a ruddy bloom of ale-fuelled joy, until the noise lessened. “Once around Thunor's shard and back,” he explained. “The first one to pass the old oak wins.”
Wonred raised his arm and looked to the contestants. As the crowd quietened and all eyes turned to the ealdorman, Eofer's father brought his arm chopping down and the race was on. The multitude roared with delight, jostling for the best positions as Eofer caught Coelwulf's eye and walked across.
Glancing down the slope Eofer could see that his new youth was already nearing the turning point and the crowd let out a gasp as his hand shot out to steady himself as he made the turn. The priests told that the shard had lain there ever since the thunder god had fought a duel with a giant named Brawler. Thunor had hurled his hammer at the eoten, striking a whetstone which had been aimed his way in return. The missiles had met in mid-air and the stone had shattered and fallen to earth, scattering the shards across the northern lands. It was a crime punishable by death to touch a thing which had come into contact with the hammer of the god and Eofer joined the rest of the onlookers, laughing with relief as Grimwulf drew back his hand at the last moment.
Less agile the horse went wide, and Eofer drew a laugh from his friend as he held out a hand and wriggled a finger ring as Grimwulf closed in on the oak. The race had been won and Imma Gold led a raucous group across to congratulate their new brother as Coelwulf shook his head in disbelief. The thegn slipped a heavy ring from his finger and tossed it across. “I would never have believed such a thing, but that was well earned Eofer. Where did you find him?”
Eofer gave the ring a swift shine on his sleeve and slipped it on to his finger. “In a barn in Daneland.”
Coelwulf glanced around him. Satisfied that the few people within earshot were still caught up in the acclamation of the runner, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I shall see if I can find one for myself soon enough.” He plucked at Eofer's sleeve and the thegns wandered across to the ale barrel and refilled their cups. The vicinity was free of folk for the first time that day as they flocked to look upon the man who could outrun a horse as Coelwulf continued. “I was with the king not five days ago. The plans are made. The war-sword has been sent to Anglia and the first ships should arrive on the east coast before Eostre. Before the great war against the Danes commences there is one further raid which the king intends to make.” He glanced about them and, satisfied that they were alone, a proud smile spread across his features. “He has asked me to gather an army from the western Wolds and join them to a force led by the king's son, Icel. The ætheling is to lead an attack against the Jutes and return with as many prisoners as we can manage.” He saw the mask of disappointment on Eofer's face and chuckled. “King Eomær mentioned you in our conversation and he described the face you would pull to perfection. He holds you in the highest regard, as I am sure you aware, mighty king's bane,” he teased, “but he thought that you should spend time with your family before you go to war again.” Coelwulf leaned in and his nostrils flared as the thegn gave an exaggerated sniff. “I am sure that I can still smell the smoke from old Hrothgar's hall in your hair!”
A cry drew their attention, and both men chuckled as they watched Astrid and her old thyften, Editha, chasing young Weohstan across the meadow. “She looks like she could do with some help,” Coelwulf quipped as Astrid scooped up the lad and threw him across her shoulder.
Eofer looked back to his friend and the smile drained from his face. “The king forgets that my wife is the daughter of King Hygelac, not some scatty milk maid squeezing a teat and daydreaming of her cock. Her father just died in battle and her brother is King of Geats, she knows the duties of a peace-weaver.”
Coelwulf brought their cups together with a chink. “The king said that you would say that too. Not quite in those words,” he admitted with a chuckle, “but they carried the gist!” He gripped Eofer by the sleeve and excitement shone in his eyes. “The new moon is in twenty days' time. Bring your men to Wihtlæg's Stone and we ride.”
The shadows were lengthening by the moment as the group split and went their separate ways with waves and happy smiles. Ealdorman Wonred paused the armed warriors on the road as the men bent low and kissed wives and children before hurrying across to rejoin them.
Eofer embraced Astrid and tousled Weohstan's hair affectionately as they made to follow the guda towards the sacred place. With the setting of the sun on the first day of the new year, the people would leave offerings to the weather god at the great oak. Thunorsleah, Thunor's holy grove, stood deep within the shadows of the Wolds and each adult carried a flaming brand to help draw the attention of the thunderer to the place and to aid in their homeward journey.
Astrid drew back from Eofer's embrace as Weohstan hefted his small shield at her side and looked on proudly.
“How long?”
Eofer looked at her in confusion. “We will be back at the hall before breakfast, as ever.”
She smiled sweetly and laid a hand lightly on his chest as she looked into his eyes. “No, how long until you leave again?” she said. “I saw you talking with Coelwulf. Eorles and thegns don't ignore horse fights unless the prospect of fighting and plunder draws them away.”
He chuckled and bent to kiss her again. “Twenty days, it will be a short one though, no ships.”
She nodded and turned to go before pausing and shooting him a coy look. Laying the hand on her belly she moved it slowly in a circle. “Good, I should be certain by then.”
The mighty war horse tossed its head and whinnied, its nostrils flaring as the warriors formed a circle and raised their brands aloft. The holt was dense in this part of the Wolds and the light which sawed and danced from the torches barely penetrated the deep shadow of Hangman's Wood which surrounded them. From their lofty position the warriors watched as the sun sank in the West until it was no more than a greasy smear of ochre on the horizon, the dying rays reaching up to colour the undersides of the clouds a fiery red.
The ash stood hard on the crossroads, the dying light painting its great trunk a ruddy gold as the rope was tossed over a sturdy bough and the slack taken up.
Eofer stood surrounded by his duguth, and he exchanged a look with the only member of the youth he had invited along. The light of pride still shone in the young woman's eyes as Spearhafoc stood among the warriors which towered all around her and, although there had been a few raised eyebrows from the men of other troops, his own men had accepted her into their ranks without a murmur. The memory of the youth's arrows speeding away into the dark as the Fælcen had neared the Danish shore was still fresh, and every man there knew that her sharpshooting that night had ma
de the difference between surprise and a hard fight.
Eofer marked the wounds of the animal and nodded to himself. It would please the Allfather to receive such a gift and he would send them victory in the coming time which men were already beginning to call the year of fire and steel. He had, as Astrid had noticed, missed the great fight between the steeds. The men of his troop had returned from the corral thrilled by the savagery, their faces reflecting the amount of silver which they had won or lost on the contest. The neck and flanks of the stallion were bloodied and torn by hooves and teeth, but its eyes shone bright with victory and its spirit remained undimmed. Each man there knew the thrill which came with out-thinking and overpowering a tough opponent and they swelled with pride as their ealdorman walked into the circle and called on their god to witness the act.
“Woden, fury, lord of battle, witness our devotion and accept this offering to you,
bring victory in the great battles which lie ahead,
hold your spear over our people as they wrest a new land from the followers of a lesser god,
a new Engeln, unyielding in its fervour for the true gods…”