by C. R. May
Icel noticed the thegn's look and his own face grew more sober. “What you did in Daneland was a great deed. The rescue of your brother, visiting fire and destruction on the enemy of your king and people has thrilled the English at this difficult time. However,” he added, “it now means that the thirst for revenge among the Danes can only be quenched by an attack on us, and soon. Hrothgar has lost face and his attentions will turn from an attack on the War-Beard homeland to those lands which he covets most of all. As you know, I have just returned from Anglia. Your brother Wulf and others are carrying the war-sword to the thegns there, they will be here as soon as they can refit their ships. The first to arrive will shadow the army as we march north into Juteland, capturing as many ships as they can on the West coast. These will be sent south to the Muddy Sea and the first farmers and their families will set off for the new lands immediately.” He noticed Eofer's look of surprise and he took a sip from his ale before explaining. “The king is sure that the Danes will attack us when the campaigning season starts after Eostre. We cannot let that happen, we must strike first. If heavy fighting breaks out in our lands as we are trying to move the people across the German Sea it could end in disaster. We cannot wait until the harvest is in as we had planned, so we have to go as early as possible to enable the ceorls to sow their seed in the soil of Anglia. The next harvest gathered by English hands will be the first in the new land my friend.” Icel reached across and charged their cups. Handing one to Eofer, he set his features into a look of determination and brought the cups together with a heavy clunk. “The king wishes to reward your loyalty and fighting spirit with a new command, Eofer. Let’s drink to our success.”
TWENTY
The early morning sky was a deep indigo, as hard and cold as ice. Away to the West the darkness still held sway, but Shining Mane was clearing the horizon and the stars there had dimmed, leaving only the brilliance of the morning star and the ruddy point of light that men called the blood star to share the vault with the sun.
Sure now that any wandering spirits would be back in the earth Wonred nodded, and brands were thrust deep inside the woodpiles. Fingers of smoke curled up at once from the brushwood tinder, and within moments the first daggers of flame were stabbing upwards from the stacks.
Eofer rested his hand on the hilt of Blood-Worm as his father called across to the waiting men, his voice muffled by the plates of the full faced grim-helm of an English folctoga. “Start your work.”
The ceorls, tenant farmers who owed allegiance to the family as their fathers had before them, took up their picks and swung at the side of the mound and the first earth of the morning tumbled away. The night had been windless and a hoar frost, crisp and white, had thickened the grass and bushes all around.
“At least this frost will keep the mud down.” Wonred said to his son. “It had rained for weeks when we placed your grandfather in there and the place was slick with mud.” He shook his head at the memory. “What a mess!”
The pair had dressed for battle, honouring the spirit of their ancestors with their finery. The men of their hearth troop, mailed and helmed, shone like torches in the reflected light of the fires as they ringed the scene while, further back, the wives and children of the men looked on respectfully.
Wonred spoke again. “Your brother should be here, but I couldn't afford to wait until he returns.” He stared ahead at the ceorls as the picks rose and fell. “I never thought that I would live to see the day when we left our land for good.” He looked at Eofer, and his son could sense the conflicting emotions tearing at the old man. “Are they that much better, these new lands?”
“Britannia is huge, father,” Eofer replied. “No longer will we be squeezed between Grim's Dyke and the River Egedore, the Jutes and the Saxons, the Muddy Sea and the Beltic. The land is fertile, with great woods and rivers teeming with fish and fowl.” He touched the blade of his spear to his father's and the corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Arthur is dead and the Britons are divided among themselves, the land is there for the taking. I witnessed their disunity with my own eyes this summer. Christians fight against those who still honour the old gods, and the Saxons are encroaching everywhere in the South.” He gave his father a stern look, eager to impress on the older man the importance of the moment despite the nearness of their ancestors' shades. “Even the Jutes are well established, both in the lands they call Cent and now on a great island which Cerdic called Vectis. Both places are perfectly placed to control trade between Britannia and the new kingdoms emerging in Gaul. If we do not take our future into our own hands our enemies will grow stronger.” He paused again to add emphasis to his words as Wonred stared into the distance. A stillness lay on the land, broken only by the mournful howl of a wolf in the distance and the rhythmic sound of pick on earth. “I believe father that if we remain in this land of Engeln while our young men carry their spears across the sea to Anglia, that the day is not so far off that our enemies here will grow too strong.” Shame caused Eofer to lower his voice, aware as he was that he was only yards from the burial mounds of his ancestors, but the point needed to be made nevertheless. “If we don't leave Engeln of our own free will, it will fall to Jutish sword or Danish axe. It is the will of the gods that we leave, father, the Allfather himself guided us at the symbel. We are still the gods' chosen people.”
The sun had fully risen now and fires were beginning to be lit to prepare food. Ale and mead were plentiful and the mood of the crowd was beginning to take on the air of a festival, despite the early start and the biting cold. The pair stood, deep in thought, watching dispassionately as an ox hauled a flat-backed wagon onto the crest, a misting of vapour rising from its back, sweet smelling in the crisp air. Halting at the barrow, the ceorls set to, shovelling the spoil onto its wide platform.
Eofer sought to lighten the mood which had descended upon them. “Where are they taking it?”
“It will be scattered across the old fields,” Wonred replied, distantly. He indicated beyond the gathering with his head. A team of oxen stood there patiently, the heavy wooden crescents of their yolks already in place. “Once we have removed Gleaming, the whole field will be ploughed flat. It will look like any other and the bones of our kinsmen can rest in peace until the end of days, whoever occupies these lands when we are gone,” Wonred turned his head and Eofer was pleased to see a smile form there.
Eofer returned the gesture. “The same scene is being played out all across Engeln, father. Once we attack the Jutes, the year of battles will have begun. There will be no going back.”
They were interrupted as a worker hurried across and dipped his head respectfully. “We have reached the chamber wall, lord.”
Wonred nodded. His last lingering doubts removed, he was back to himself, a folctoga of the English and his voice was firm. “Clear away the last of the earth Coela and we will be across.” He threw the man a smile. “Once you have removed the planking you can take a break. The meats look like they are ready, I am sure that the lads will make short work of them.”
The ceorl smiled and dipped his head once again, before doubling across to spread the news among his companions. Hemming crossed to his lord with Wonred's own weorthman, Penda. At the mound, Coela stood tall and looked in their direction as the wagon was hauled to one side.
“Time to go,” Wonred sniffed. “Let's get this done.”
Hemming and Penda took up positions flanking their lords as the group strode purposefully towards the opening. The workmen stood to one side as the warriors moved into the shadow of the mound and approached the burial chamber. Coela stood ready, a mattock poised to begin the task of levering away the heavy oak planking. Wonred nodded to the man and he worked the chisel edge of the blade into the join between two of the boards. A robin appeared at the top of the mound and the men smiled despite the solemnity of the occasion as the red breasted bird watched the goings on with undisguised interest. The first board suddenly gave with a crack as Coela levered it way and moved on.
The stale air, decades beneath the earth, washed over the group as the boards came away and Eofer fought against the urge to crane his neck to catch the first glimpse of the treasures within. The earth had been cleared from the top of the mound and a few of the oak beams which lay there were flicked up to allow the pale light of winter to illuminate the chamber. Coela looked across to Wonred for a sign that he had done enough and the folctoga gave a curt nod. As the ceorl cleared away Wonred led them in.
A latticework of sunbeams patterned the space and Eofer paused as his eyes became accustomed to the light. The skeleton of a horse lay at his feet, the curved bones of the ribcage brown with age, remnants of skin still clinging to them like a badly raised tent. His gaze ran on, past the skull to the figure at the head of the chamber. Raised on a shallow dais above the level of the earthen floor, Eofer's grandfather, Ælfgar, sat upon his gift-stool.
More familiar with the layout of the tomb, Wonred had already crossed to the figure and they watched as he bent his knee and laid his forehead upon the withered hand of his long dead father.
Rising again, Wonred turned and motioned to Penda. “Bring it in. I want there to be no trace left here before sundown.” Eofer crossed to his father's side as their duguth left the chamber and reappeared moments later leading a pair of men shouldering a heavy oak coffin. Eofer straddled the great bones of the war horse with a heavy iron trestle and the pair placed the casket down with a grunt of effort. Wonred indicated to Eofer that he help him to remove the lid of the coffin, and the pair propped it against the side wall of the chamber and returned to the figure of Ælfgar. Eofer studied his ancestor as they to prepared to transfer his remains.
Dressed in a tunic of fine red cloth edged with gold braiding, the ealdorman was still dressed in blue trews bound at the calf by delicately woven winingas, the golden strips of cloth crisscrossing to the knee. Gleaming, the ancestral sword of their clan, lay across the lap of the long dead ealdorman and Wonred spoke as he moved forward to lift it with reverence from the lap of his father.
“Father, this is your grandson, Eofer, called king's bane. Slayer of Ongentheow, King of Swedes, hall burner of the king of Danes. My other son, Wulf, has been shown great honour for his battle-fury and carries the war-spear to the king's thegns as we speak. When he returns he will go to join the king's own hearth troop, become a trusted gesith. Our king, Eomær of the Engle, has ordered that his people will leave these lands. The Allfather has guided us to another land, a better land, a land where the people can grow, prosper and bring the worship of the real gods to the people there. Before we leave these Wolds we will move to smite our enemies. Your grandson Eofer will carry Gleaming to Anglia so that it will remain in the clan always, but first he will carry it to war against our greatest foes as you did in your own time.”
Wonred turned and handed the ancestral blade to Eofer who took it with pride as the duguth looked on. The blade was untarnished, despite the passage of decades as it lay beneath the ground, and it shone brightly in the light filtering down from above. Eofer's heart raced as he looked on the golden hilt for the first time and felt the perfect balance of the blade as it rested in his hands.
He had always held that his own sword, Blood-Worm, was a thing of great beauty. With a handle of pale horn capped by an intricately worked silver pommel, the blade which had taken the life of King Ongentheow had always been his proudest possession. It was, he now knew, a pale imitation of the sword which his ancestors had carried into battle, the blade he would soon carry against his own king's foemen. He had always assumed that the sword had earned its name from the quality of its blade, but he could see now that he had been mistaken. His blood quickened as he ran his eyes along the length of the fuller, a whirling mass of stars edged by razor-sharp strips of shining steel, to the hilt. The hand grip was a series of alternating hoops, wide bands of horn and lighter, almost white, whalebone or walrus tusk. Gold guards terminated the grip at each end and the whole was capped by a magnificent pommel of garnet and gold. Eofer had seen such a cap on the swords of royalty, both King Eomær and his son Icel had such a pommel on their own weapons, and the golden backed cells which held the garnets gleamed like stars within the gloom in the mound.
Eofer handed the sword to Hemming for safekeeping, before exchanging a look of pride with his father as they both moved forward to lift the remains of their ancestor from his stool. Wonred gripped the sleeve of his father's tunic and prepared to lift, but a thought came to his own son who held up a hand to stop him. “If we try to lift Ælfgar like this we are going to have a disaster. Either the clothing will turn to dust in our hands or the bones will come apart. Either way,” Eofer said, “we shall have to scoop the remains of my grandfather off the floor.”
Wonred blew out and nodded in agreement. “Grip the back and handles of the gift-stool and we'll carry him across. If the lads remove the chair at the last moment, hopefully we can just lower him down into the casket.” Wonred laughed suddenly and grinned at the dried husk which he had known so well in life. “I know that you are enjoying this, watching from the ale bench in Valhall.” He flicked Eofer a look as they took the weight. “He had a wicked sense of humour. You and Wulf would have liked the old goat.”
They carried the chair across and lowered it to the level of the coffin. As Hemming and Penda moved to replace them, Wonred and Eofer cradled the body in their arms and lowered it to its final resting place. Hewn from a solid piece of oak, the silk lined casket had been left deliberately free from decoration, in contrast to the opulence of the grave goods which had been placed there decades before.
Alone with their thoughts, both men took a final look at the face of their forefather as the lid slid across to remove it from the gaze of men for all time.
Eofer was reflective as he rode the final mile to the hall. Thrush Hemming recognised his lord's mood and remained silent, his presence being all the support the man would need. His grandfather would be closed up again by now, and the very thought of that dark, airless space was enough to move the eorle's hand instinctively to the hammer charm which hung at his neck.
Once the grave goods had been taken down from their pegs and redistributed around the body of the old ealdorman, the workmen had returned and lowered the roof beams to little more than waist height. Now several feet below the ground level above, the grave would disappear into the landscape completely once the field had been ploughed over and the extra soil scattered elsewhere.
Across the length and breadth of Engeln men were doing the same for their own ancestors. Soon the English would move away from their ancestral lands and the memories of such places would be lost forever, but the shades of the men would remain and Eofer smiled at the thought of the old battle-lords haunting their fields and woods until the end of days.
Gleaming lay across his lap as he rode and he gave the old blade a pat as he thought back to the final acts in the tomb. They had placed the grave goods at the head and feet of the chamber. On the far end, towards the ealdorman's head, they had laid his war gear and treasure. Eofer recalled his grandfather's wealth with pride as he rode. A shirt of mail was carefully folded and laid alongside a heavy spear and several of the lighter daroth. The horse's bridle lay alongside a magnificent saddle, its leather work cut and chased, inlaid with gold. At his grandfather's feet rested a bowl of hazelnuts and a bag of lamb joints, shrivelled and desiccated with age. A distant smile had washed across Wonred's face as he had explained to his son that they had been a few of his grandfather's favourite foods. A lyre in a beaver skin bag was placed to one side along with a gaming board, its pieces arranged in lines, ready for the gamers to take their places.
Wonred had placed his father's grim-helm at the head of the coffin lid, and together they had lifted the man's great war-shield onto the case. Across this lay a pair of drinking horns as long as a man's arm. Made from the great horn of the aurochs, the lip of each vessel was encircled by a deep band of silver, delicately cast, while each horn terminated in th
e silver head of an eagle, its curving beak and gem studded eyes glittering in the gloom of the grave.
As they had turned to go, Eofer had delighted his father with a final gesture. Removing the scabbard containing Blood-Worm from his baldric, he had placed it and the sword it contained alongside the shield and described their history to the old man's shade. He had used it to take the life of a king in battle and he had wielded the same blade outside Heorot as they fought to free their kinsman and bring fire and destruction to the king's enemies. It was a fitting replacement for Gleaming, and Eofer had asked Ælfgar to show Ongentheow honour on his behalf until they met again in Valhall, for he had faced his death like a king.
Imma Gold popped his head inside and squinted into the gloom. Seeing Eofer by the hearth he broke into a smile, “Sæward's here, lord.” Eofer nodded that he understood and sent Weohstan to find his mother. The lad scampered away, and Eofer stepped across the threshold of his hall and into the yard. The air was still, overhead a thick drugget of clouds, grey and soft edged, was shifting slowly to the East. Eofer smiled as the duguth hauled on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt.
“Good journey?”
Sæward jumped to the ground, kneading his buttocks as he flexed his legs. “If I ever give up on the sea, lord, remind me never to become a carter.” He made a circle of his lips and exhaled, “I felt every bump in the road. Whatever you do,” he grimaced, “don't move for a moment so that I can focus on you. My eyes are still joggling up and down!”
They shared a laugh and Eofer pushed a cup onto the man. Sæward's face lit up as he noticed what the vessel contained.
“Cider!”
Eofer grinned. “Astrid's best. We can't take it all with us, it's got to go.”
Sæward swilled the drink before swallowing it with a look of relish. “That was worth a sore arse. Got any more?” The eorle clapped him on the shoulder and indicated the door to the hall with a jerk of his head. “Inside, help yourself to anything you find, there's food and drink piled high. Yuletide has come again.”