Fire & Steel

by C. R. May

  Sæward hurried inside and Eofer looked back to the wagon. The youth from the ship, Bassa, Beornwulf and Edwin were loading the hangings and tapestries onto the back of the wagon and Eofer strolled across. “Leave that and get yourself inside lads. Eat and drink as much as you want, the rest is going to the gods.”

  The thræl, Brecc, was busy preparing the horses for their journey and Eofer called him across to give him a hand with the loading. Eofer watched the man as they worked. He was not home enough to really know the man's worth, but Astrid had spoken well of him. He had noticed that she had even trusted the slave with a spear the night he had returned from Britannia and she had assured him that he was dependable when he had questioned her judgement. He was solidly built and bore the scars on his forearm which were typical, if not of a warrior, at least of a man who had fought in the levy and was no stranger to the horrors of the shield wall. Eofer decided to find out more about the man's past. “Tell me about yourself, Brecc. How did you come into thrældom?”

  The man looked up and Eofer could see the surprise and wariness writ on his features. Great events were happening in Engeln and Eofer realised that the man was right to be cautious. In times of trouble, famine or war, thræls would be the first to pay the price if there were suddenly too many mouths to feed or there was any question as to their trustworthiness. He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You are in no danger. You have my word.”

  A guarded look washed across the man's features, and Eofer saw that he was weighing his words carefully until he was sure of his position. It showed an intelligence and self-confidence that was uncommon in those born to his position, qualities which would likely go some way to explaining his usefulness.

  The last of the goods were on the wagon and Eofer whistled as Spearhafoc walked by with a pitcher of ale and a pair of cups for Octa and Osbeorn. The young woman stifled a sigh as Eofer took the tray from her, and he laughed as his duguth tried to hide their disappointment as the girl trudged back towards the hall to fetch replacements.

  He smiled again as he handed Brecc a cup of drink. “Here, this will help loosen your tongue.”

  Thræls were forbidden to drink anything but water on pain of death, and Eofer recognised the look of bliss which swept his features as he sank his first mouthful. Brecc drained the remainder in one, and Eofer's eyes sparkled with amusement as he noticed the man decide to chance his luck, throwing caution to the wind as he held his cup out for a refill. Brecc drank again, wiping the froth from his beard with the back of his hand as the ale worked its magic and he began to relax.

  “I come from a land called Dumnonia, lord, although you would call us all Britons. It's a long way from the part of Britannia where your settlements are, but we do get quite a few Saxon ships in our waters.” Eofer kept topping up the thræl's cup as he drank and soon he had shed his inhibitions and was in full flow. “I used to work the fish, lord, you know from a boat. One day the owner got carried away and chased a shoal of mackerel out to sea.” Brecc's gaze misted over and Eofer could see that the man was back at sea in his mind. He smiled to himself, he knew the feeling well. “What happened then Brecc, a storm?” The man snorted. “As I said, lord. The sea is full of Saxon pirates. We turned for home when we saw them but the wind died on us and that was that, there's no way that a boat with four oars is going to outrun one shipping two score or more. I guess that I am lucky to be here at all.” The ale had worked quickly on a mind that had been denied it for so long and Brecc shot Eofer a smile. “Bastards took our fish and us with them,” he laughed, “sold us to a slaver in Gaul!”

  Eofer drained his own cup as he reached a decision. There was no place for the man where his family were going and the alternative was unthinkable. The Briton had stood shoulder to shoulder with Astrid and Weohstan the night he had arrived back from Britannia, unflinching as the war-band thundered into the yard before them. The man was loyal, dependable and reliable, despite the cruel twist in his life-thread which the norns had woven for him. Besides, he reflected as he watched Brecc chuckle happily as he finished another tale, he was just too likeable. He charged the cups again. “Have you a family at home?” Brecc's smile fell from his features and he shifted uncomfortably on the tail gate of the wagon. “A gwr called Bleddyn and a boy, Arwel.” He looked wistfully into his cup and swilled the drink in a circle as he remembered. “He will be ten winters old now, lord,” he said wistfully. “All grown up.”

  The cart paused at the exit to the yard, and Eofer looked up as the horses carrying the men of his hearth troop gathered in its wake. The riders turned back, and their lord reached out to his wife and pulled her close. “It's a shame that the hall will never echo to the sound of a bairn again.”

  Eofer dropped a hand and caressed her belly. The new life which was growing there was obvious now and he rested his hand on the swelling as she nuzzled in to his chest. “We will build a better hall in the new country,” he said. “With woods to hunt in, dark soil to sow crops and a brook to fish.”

  She looked up at him and there was a twinkle in her eye. “So, you are going to hang up your shield and spear and become a farmer?” She moved her hand down to cup his balls, rolling them between her thumb and fingers as Weohstan shook his head and moved away in disgust. She smiled and shook her head. “No, I thought not, king's bane. I can't see you wading through mud and shit all day when there is a reputation to build upon. Not with plums like those.” They shared a kiss and giggled together as the men on the road whistled and catcalled. “Thank you,” she murmured as they parted. “It was a good thing, that which you did, worthy of an eorle.” Eofer thought back to the great white cliffs, the cry of the gulls, the salty bite in the air and shrugged. “I sailed those waters this summer past with Cerdic. I could not deny the man his freedom. Brecc should be there to guide his boy to manhood.”

  Crossing to the fire each took up a brand, Weohstan following their example as the family moved towards the hall. Ducking inside for the last time they made their way across to the great mound of timber which had been stacked there. Benches and tables, their broken joints ragged and white against the darker surface wood, shards of pottery and bolts of yarn awaiting the hunger of the flames.

  Astrid thrust her torch deep inside the pile, jamming it into its heart where the pyre had been packed with old thatch. The flames crackled into life and she turned to go as her husband and son followed her example. “It's no longer a home,” she said with a shrug of indifference. “Without the people it is just another room.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Thrush Hemming gave a low whistle. “Looks like we're last.”

  Eofer tugged at his reins, bringing them all to a halt at the edge of the tree line as his eyes scanned the gathering.

  An army swirled within the bowl of land ahead as men crossed to and fro, renewing friendships from earlier campaigns and greeting distant kinsmen. The hildbeacn, the war-banners of the thegns snapped and writhed in a freshening wind, their colours, reds, golds and blues, shimmering against the paler hues of an English winter. At its centre, standing proudly beside the stone of Wihtlæg the ætheling had planted the royal standard, white on scarlet, a sight to chill the most valiant Jutish heart.

  “Let's get down there,” Eofer said at last. He shot his duguth a wolfish smile. “In case they go without us.”

  Putting spur to horse they broke free of the shadows and his own hildbeacn went forward to mingle among the men of the fyrd for the first time. Faces turned outwards, war horns sounded, and voices rose in acclamation as Eofer led his hearth troop into the heart of them, exchanging smiles and hailing old friends as they approached the dragon flag.

  Icel stood by the stone itself, and he grinned in welcome as they slowed and dismounted. Eofer handed the reins to Thrush and returned the grin as he took the cup which the ætheling thrust his way.

  “The king's bane has arrived. We can start the war!”

  Icel swept the gathering with a look of mirth as they all beamed at t
heir lord's good humour. He crossed and placed a friendly arm around Eofer's shoulder and guided him to one side as Coelwulf flashed him a wink.

  “Are you all set?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Good, you are the last group to arrive. We will leave here and move north.”

  Icel squinted up at the sun. The orb had just moved beyond its highest point as it tracked to the West. Ragged clouds raced by, pale grey shot through with white, but the day was mild for the time of year and the fact was reflected in the faces of the men around them. “We will move from here as soon as this barrel is dry, which should be just long enough for us to mount up now that Osbeorn has arrived,” he said with a snort. “The king told me about your duguth and the pickled eggs; the Barley Mow?” Eofer nodded and Icel pulled a knowing smile in return. “He's not the first and he won't be the last.”

  The ætheling grabbed a pair of pork ribs from the table and handed one across. As Eofer tore a strip of flesh from the bone, Icel went on. “It will be as I outlined at your hall. We will leave here separately, you move up The Oxen Way and I will lead the army along the tracks to the west of the Wolds. We will camp near the border for a day to give you time to launch your attack and allow the enemy time to respond before we cross the river.” He glanced across and the usual relaxed features of the prince had taken on a harder edge. “Have you any last questions?”

  Eofer shook his head. “No, lord.”

  Icel nodded, satisfied. “We shall have riders out keeping an eye on you. Even if you don't see them they will see you, count on it.”

  Icel's expression cleared and he was back to his usual jocular self. “I like your new hildbeacn, the burning hart. I will wager that you can't wait to carry it against the Danes next month.” He caught the look of surprise which crossed Eofer's face at the news and nodded. “Yes, it will be as soon as that. The first men from Britannia have reached Sleyswic and others are making their way along the Trene to the Old Ford. By the time we return the town will be a forest of spears. Add the fyrd of Engeln to their numbers and we will have an overwhelming force with which to repay the Danes for their arrogance.” He took a bite from the rib and waved it in the direction of the coast. “Are your family safely away?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “To Geatland?”

  Eofer nodded. “Yes, lord. My duguth, Sæward, is carrying them there in the scegth which your father had built for me as we speak.”

  It was Icel's turn to look surprised. “Already? Doesn't the oak need to season first?”

  “It will be some time before the hull needs any attention,” Eofer replied, “it can season just as well in Geatland. Osric, the master shipwright at Strand, has sent his eldest son with them to take care of any minor adjustments which become apparent. Sæward knows his way around a ship and he has been sailing her every day since she was launched. She is as fine a vessel as ever skimmed the waves, there will be no problem with her seaworthiness if he says so. He assures me that she is even faster than the Fælcen. They are moving north along the coast with the fleet which will attack the Jutish settlements there, before one of my father's snake ships shepherds them the rest of the way.”

  Icel inhaled deeply as a breeze swept up the ridge, bringing with it the brackish tang of the Muddy Sea. He took a last nibble from the pork rib and sent the bone spinning through the air. “Then we are set.”

  Away to the West the island of Silt lay like a dark stone set in a pewter sea as the pale light of the sun reflected from the surface. “The gods are with us, Eofer,” he said distantly. “What else could explain the mildness of the weather at this time of year?”

  Eofer buried his chin deeper into his cloak and shook another droplet from the tip of his nose. Dropping down free of the trees, he led the long sodden column out of the Wolds and into a land made water. High above, a dark mass of cloud lay over the eastern half of the kingdom, its serrated edge a giant's saw as it pointed to the North. To the West the sky was the pale blue of winter, but the sun shone brightly and the land beneath it shimmered like a sheet of beaten silver as the rainstorm moved away.

  “What was it that Haystack said, lord?”

  Eofer pinched his nose and flicked the droplets away as he turned to the man to his left. “Something about the gods being with us due to the weather?”

  Hemming added his voice from the right. “Maybe they are.” He glanced away to the North. The great ragged edge of the storm lay almost directly above The Oxen Way and the land beneath lay deep in shadow. Darker patches showed where showers were falling. “It will keep them all at home. No man ventures far from a warm hearth and a horn of ale in weather like this unless there is good reason, especially at this time of the year.”

  At his side Penda nodded in agreement. “Thrush could have the right of it.” He ran his hand down his face and tousled the moisture from his beard. “That's where I would be if I had nothing better to do.”

  The edge of the storm finally reached the eastern foothills of the Wolds and the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the column watching in wonder and delight as the line of sunlight raced across the meadow towards them. Moments later they were within its embrace, and Eofer glanced back along the long line of riders and chuckled to himself as he saw the mood lift. Smiles appeared on rain-lashed faces as the standard-bearers shook the moisture from their banners and the breeze teased them out once more.

  Ahead of them the dark stain which was The Oxen Way snaked across the countryside, its boundary ditches brim-full from the deluge which had gone before, and Eofer led them across and turned the head of his mount north.

  The road was little used during the darker months. Trade between the Jutish kingdom to the North and those of the Saxons and others far to the South fell away and barely a cart was passed, the drivers staring in wonder at the steel clad magnificence of the warriors as they passed with a smile and a nod for labouring countrymen.

  Within the hour the palisade which marked the line of Grim's Dyke hove into view and soon they were corralling their horses and settling in its shadow. Fires flickered into life as men set to with fire-steel and kindling. Before long the smell of roasting meat permeated the air as the first stars of the evening speckled the sky to the East.

  Eofer called Penda to him as the men began to gravitate naturally towards the other members of their troop. “Stand alongside me will you,” he began as his father's duguth came across. “I want to go over the details of the attack and it might help some of the older men to see us together.” Penda made to protest but Eofer held up a finger and continued. “I know that they will follow me as an eorle and a man of reputation, but more than a few of my father's men knew me as a boy. It's natural that some may still see me that way without even realising that they are. There are a hundred ways in which this raid can turn out badly for us, I want them to see that we are all in this together.”

  The pair scaled the stairway which had been cut into the bank by hands long ago and came out onto the crest of the fortification. As the sound of Penda's war horn carried across the heads of the gathering and faces turned towards them, Eofer ran his eyes along the line of the earthworks as the sun began to slip below the horizon to the West. Twin ramparts, the southern higher than that on the northern side, snaked away across country towards the distant line of willow which marked the course of Grim's Brook. The brook ran west to the distant Muddy Sea, and he instinctively searched the horizon for any sign of light reflecting from the polished mail and helms of the ætheling's army which would be encamping there. The old timbers of the palisade were weathered and cracked by their exposure to a century of cold winters and the hot summer sun and, peering across, Eofer could see the remains of the dyke which had guarded the old frontier for so many years. The sharpened stakes which had lined the rampart had long fallen into the bottom of the ditch and brambles and hawthorn now grew where men had once clawed and died.

  The eorle suddenly realised that the voices had stilled, and he came back fr
om his musings to see that Penda was waiting for him to begin his address. Below them a sea of upturned faces were turned towards him, and he felt a sudden wave of affection for these men who were sworn to serve his family unto death. They were, he had to admit to himself, an uncouth bunch. Some were already happily chewing at hunks of meat, their beards glistening with the fat which ran to coat it, but all seemed to be drinking and every face reflected a grim determination that the war would be won and the part they would play in it would be glorious. He pulled a smile and began as the daylight finally left the West and the firelight cast long shadows all around.

  “I know that most of you already have a good idea of what we are doing here, but I will outline what is expected of us this night and assign men to their tasks.” He glanced towards the West and turned back with a smile. “I have just been looking at the work of our ancestors, those great men of old who overcame Jutes, Danes, War-Beards and Myrgings, carving out a motherland for our people. It is not by chance that I chose to rest at this place before our attack.” Eofer swept a hand across the place where the men had congregated. “This is the very place where King Wihtlæg turned back the invasion of our land by the tyrant, Amleth. For three days the Jute attacks broke upon these walls like storm driven waves against a rocky headland until, judging the moment to perfection, the king of the English fell upon them. Pouring through the breach before you, the great king harried the Jutes as far as their horses would carry them, hewing them from behind so that as far as a man could ride in a day the road was littered with the corpses of the slain. For four generations our forefathers have defended those lands until the gods showed them a better land as a reward for their vigour.”