by C. R. May
Wihta paused as he gained the track, turning back to survey his land. The wildwood still crowded in on all sides, but he had three fields now, enough to rotate the crops. Roots, swede and turnip in one, barley in the next and a third left fallow, perfect for the half dozen sheep which produced milk and cheese all year round with a gods-given bonus of woollen fleece each spring and dung to feed the soil. The surrounding woodland, oak, hazel and wych elm were perfect mast for the swine which he shared with his neighbour, the meadow yonder a short flight for the bees which filled his hive.
Gwynfor was more than a neighbour, he was a good friend, and it had been the Briton’s idea that they pool their resources to invest in the shared ownership of an ox. Thræls, the more usual form of labour at plough time, were often more trouble than they were worth on the fringes of the English settlements, the slaves prone to make a break for freedom, stealing hard to replace items and sometimes killing their owners. He had seen with his own eyes what had happened to one family, down in the vale, and although a hue and cry had been quickly raised and the culprit tracked down and drowned in the mere like all murderers, with the trackless backwoods of Canoc and Brunes Wald within a few days walk it had still not put off the most determined among them.
He was about to turn away when another note carried to him on the breeze, higher in tone, and Wihta felt a kick of anxiety in his guts as he recognised the shrill war horn for what it was. His eyes were fixed now on the point where the track from the south exited the tree line and within moments a horse, its flanks heaving and foam lathered, clattered into view. Wihta was walking towards the red faced rider before he realised that he had moved, and the man he now recognised as Edwin from past musters hauled at the reins and brought the horse to a halt before him.
‘There are raiders in the vale,’ he blurted out as Wihta held out a hand to calm the mount. ‘Everyone is to arm and gather at the oak as soon as they can.’
‘How many are there?’
Edwin pulled a pained smile as he began to turn the head of his mount back towards the track. ‘More than enough to spoil your day, Wihta. Join the fyrd at the thunder oak, but leave a few spears for your boys, they may have need of them soon.’
As the rider put back his heels and cantered away to spread the alarm Wihta started back to the hall, forcing down the almost overwhelming desire to run. The situation seemed bad, desperate maybe, but the eyes of his family would be upon him and he knew that he had to set an example to them.
Ebba was already at the doorway as he crossed the yard, the knife which she had been using held forgotten in her hand as she watched his approach. Wihta threw his wife what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he grew near, but he could see from her expression that she was not to be so easily fooled. Anyone who had spent their entire life on the frontier knew what the war horn signalled, and he allowed himself a snort of pride as he saw that his daughter was already fixing the bridle to Arthur. His share of the spoils from a previous raid and named after the old British warlord, everyone had thought that the choice was amusing at the time, and a small part of him hoped that they would still be laughing when the sun dipped that evening.
‘The Powys’ are in the vale,’ he offered as he reached the doorway. ‘Fetch my spears.’
Wihta ducked into the hall, throwing off his work clothes as he began to rummage in the settle. Slipping into his best blue breeks, he was wriggling into his leather war shirt as Swinna reached the hall and held him with his gaze. ‘I am coming too, father. I am ready and we will need all the spearmen we have.’ His thoughts whirled as he used his busyness to mask his indecision. The boy had been training at the moot hall for a year or more now. Spear work, shield work, he had learnt quickly how to act in the wall and obey orders without question. He had a right to go, but who would protect the family with both men away?
The reply had left his mouth before he really had time to think, but the look on his son’s face told him that it was the right one. ‘Dress and arm, quickly.’
As the boy scurried away he looked up with a frown. ‘Where are my winingas, the gold ones?’
Ebba was there, and she shook her head as she replied. ‘They are in your hand. Here,’ she said as she moved forward. ‘Let me tie them.’
Wihta sat back and drew a breath, collecting his thoughts as she knelt before him and began to wind the leg ties around his calves. He watched her as she worked, crisscrossing the golden tapes before tying them off just below the knee. She was a good wife, strong and open handed, popular within the valley and a faultless mother. Her body had filled out a little since the children came, but the strands of silver which lined her hair matched his own and he realised that the shared triumphs and tragedies of the years had almost made them one. Of all the hard earned trappings of wealth which surrounded him, Ebba and the children were the most precious of all.
A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see that Swinna stood ready, spear and shield in hand, his chin raised proudly as his younger siblings looked on. Wihta stood and took his own great war board down from its place upon the wall. ‘Ready?’
Without waiting for a reply, the Engle strode purposefully away, past the smouldering hearth which had witnessed so many happy moments and out into the weak spring sunshine. Arthur stood ready, and he hooked his toughened leather war cap and shield into place on the crupper as he hauled himself up into the saddle. Swinna was alongside him, and Wihta held out a hand to help the boy leap up onto the horse’s rump.
Ebba had gained the yard and she led the younger children across as Wihta took up the reins and bent low. ‘Take yourselves off into the woods until we return.’ She made to argue but the words were stillborn as she saw the look on his face and it became plain that this was no ordinary raid, a few young hotheads out to drive away a handful of sheep and cows to prove their manhood and impress the girls back home. She placed a hand upon his thigh as the seriousness of the situation which faced them sunk in, and Wihta moved his own down to give it a small squeeze. The younger children had recognised the action for what it was, and Wihta flashed them a smile of reassurance, tousling the boy’s hair and throwing his daughter a wink. ‘Look after your mother,’ he said. ‘We will be back before you all know it.’
With a click of his tongue they were away, the horse quickly exiting the yard to clatter onto the roadway. Guiding the mount southwards the sunny clearing which contained all that he held dear was soon behind him, and the horse increased its pace to a canter as it plunged into the shadows. It was a little shy of three miles to the lightning ravaged oak, and he had already covered half the distance before the horse could break sweat.
Lost in his thoughts, the horsemen were almost upon him before he had time to react.
The red dragon of Powys snaked above the pair and he felt Swinna throw a steadying arm around him as he snatched at the reins and desperately turned back. All things being equal he still had enough of a head start to regain the farm before he was overtaken, but he soon realised to his consternation that things were far from that. His horse was bred for plough and cart, no war horse, and the chasing riders were gaining with every step taken.
They had only travelled half the distance back to the farm when he felt his son slide from the back of the horse as the foemen came up and he prepared to sell his life dearly. A moment of indecision and Wihta was at his side, father and son exchanging a last look as their shields came together with a clatter.
2
A flash of movement, flint grey and menacing, and it was gone. The men gripped their spears a little tighter as they sensed the death-spirits begin to seep forth from the shadows, gathering about the little group as they came to claim their prize. Hemming exhaled in wonder. ‘There he is: big bastard too.’ The duguth licked his thumb, running the pad along the edge of his spear blade as the corners of his mouth turned up into a wicked smile. ‘Not too big to spit though, especially after the runaround he has given us all night.’
The early morning sun was sla
nting in from the east as the hunters moved into a skirmish line and fanned out to either side, the paling light from the brand each man carried throwing long shadows inland.
Eofer ran his eyes along the flanks of the headland to the north and was gratified to see that the others were already in position, a line of leather capped men moving down to close the trap beneath their own blooms of light. He looked to either side, motioning with the point of his spear that the wing men move around to complete the encirclement. The thegn shot his duguth a happy smile. Despite the weariness which came from a night in the saddle, hunting really was the finest of sports. ‘Come on,’ he said as he slipped from his mount with a hasty look seaward. ‘Let’s get this done. It will be fully light soon and I could use an early breakfast.’
Eofer scanned the rise ahead, unbuckling Gleaming from its baldric as he did so. The broken ground before him rose to a shield-like dome. Scrubby bushes of gorse and heather littered the lower slopes, while at its high point the crest was marked by a hoary old birch, the skeletal limbs stark outlines against a rapidly lightening sky. He handed the ancient blade to Finn for safekeeping. Despite the words which the scops and poets trilled as they gladdened the hall with flowery prose, sword work required room; there would be none in the scrub ahead, and the scabbard could very well upend him when he faced the cornered animal.
Hemming arrived at his side, rolling his shoulders for the spear work to come. ‘Ready, lord?’
A curt nod and a wink. ‘Let’s finish it.’
Hemming drifted a spear length to the right as the pair set off. The sandy soil was loose and broken after the dry weather which had gone before, and they placed their feet with care as they ghosted the shadows. The apex of the hillock was small, almost barrow-like, little more than a hummock in the rolling landscape which folk called the Sandlings, and the men moved into a fighting crouch as the gorse began to thin.
The first rays of the sun broke free of the earth’s rim at that moment, turning the outline of the tree before them into a fiery hand as they reached the foot of the final incline and halted, horror-struck at the sight which met them.
Eofer gathered the men around him and swept them with his gaze. ‘Remember,’ he said. ‘Return to your villages and spread the word. The old wolf is not to be touched. Any man, woman or child who so much as denies the animal its cravings will pay with their life.’
The men shifted uncomfortably, but a murmur of agreement left them all the same. Most of the locals were Engles like himself, but Eofer knew that there was a fair smattering of other people added to the mix; Swæfe, Frisians, even a few who still counted themselves as Britons, despite their English speech and the passage of time since their own rulers had died out or been driven westwards by the new folk who had begun to pour into Anglia generations before. He knew that these men would find his order the hardest to accept, and he made a point of pinning them with a stare until they made eye contact and nodded their acceptance. Whether they clung to their mistaken beliefs or not, any Christ men would follow the ways of their new lords or pay the price.
As the men sought out kin and neighbours for the homeward trek, Eofer risked a light brush of the seat of his trews as his hearth warriors moved among the beaters with food for their journey. Hemming caught his eye and threw him a sympathetic look. ‘Can you ride?’
Eofer shook his head, running his fingertips lightly across the bloody punctures which had lacerated his buttock as he stifled a laugh. The shock was beginning to wear off now and he was beginning to see the humour in the moment. The corners of his mouth turned upwards into a smile as he attempted to move the flap of material back to cover his nakedness. ‘No, I am bloody walking!’
The reply finally broke the tension of the morning and the pair, thegn and duguth, chuckled like carefree young lads despite the weariness of a nightlong chase. Hemming ambled across, tugging at the reins of his mount as he did so. ‘Well it looks like it’s going to be a fine morning for a walk, Eofer,’ he said with a smile. ‘I think that I will join you.’
The pair set off back to the south as the hunting party dispersed hither and yon. As Eofer’s hearth men took up their own reins and fell in behind the pair, Hemming spoke again. ‘He may have been an old grey muzzle, but he could still move like lightning.’ Eofer nodded agreement as the pathway dipped down into a grassy bowl and curved away towards home. The pair instinctively glanced across their shoulders, back towards the lonely rise with its crowning birch. Despite the distance, Hemming lowered his voice as he returned his gaze. ‘You have looked into his eye before, Eofer, at the symbel back in Engeln. Do you think that it could have been him?’
‘Who can say? Woden can appear in many guises. A one eyed wolf though?’ Eofer gave a shrug. ‘I wasn’t about to take the chance.’ He pursed his lips as another stab of pain shot through him. ‘Besides, he didn’t seem in the mood to talk whether he was the god or not. I know what he was not though,’ he continued with a grimace. ‘The ghost of some old British brigand.’ He threw Hemming a look of amusement. ‘What was the name were they muttering back there? They looked like they were in more pain than I was when we described it to them.’
‘Blæcce shucca, the black demon. He was sacrificed by Engles at a place just south of here called the Haugh, a few years back. Before he died he cursed the English, and the ceorls say that soon after a monstrous dog-like troll appeared in Anglia, huge and shaggy, as black as pitch. He haunts the byways and heathland about the Sandlings and, although he howls and growls like a regular wolf, his footfall leaves no sound. You may scoff, lord,’ he added as he saw Eofer’s look of amusement. ‘But I have met a man who has seen him and lived to tell the tale.’ Eofer raised a brow and his eyes twinkled. ‘It wouldn’t be one of your drinking partners from Friston by any chance, would it?’
‘No...well, yes,’ he replied defensively. ‘Sort of. He is Frisian but he lives over near Saimund’s Ham. And, he said that Snarly yowl, which is what the Fris call him, only had one eye which shone like a fiery garnet.’ Eofer winced as they scrambled up a short slope and gained the lip of the gully. ‘Well next time you see your friend, you can tell him from me that Snarly yowl makes up for his lack of an eye with the sharpness of his fangs!’
‘That’s not all though, lord,’ Hemming added earnestly. Eofer caught the concern in his old friend’s voice and was surprised to see that he was fingering the hammer pendant at his neck. ‘Well?’ he said, ‘spit it out. Whatever it is I doubt that it will feel as bad as having a wolf chew on your arse, so my day can only get better.’ Hemming pursed his lips. ‘The ceorls say that whenever shucca appears to someone, either they or a member of their close family dies that year.’
The land rose again as the pathway arced away towards Snæpe, and the pair paused as the tawny ridge-line of Eofer’s hall came into view in the distance. Eofer gave his weorthman a look of pity. ‘That was no fell-wraith, Thrush. You would know that if your arse had more holes than a straw whistle.’ He raised his gaze and let out a weary sigh. ‘It looks like we have company too, that’s just what we needed today. Let us hope that it is nobody important.’
A smear of dust on the road told the pair that a rider was approaching, but they soon exchanged a smile as they recognised that the horse carried Osbeorn. Eofer’s duguth had been left back at the hall along with the majority of Eofer’s hearth men; there had been no sign of hostility from the Wulfing lands just across the river but it always paid to be sure. If his man had left his duty of care the mystery visitors were sure to be friendly and in all likelihood carrying important news. Eofer felt the old familiar kick of excitement at the nearness of action. If the messengers were carrying the war-sword, the small wooden call to arms which English king’s back beyond the time of Offa the Great had sent out to muster the army, it could not have come at a better time. Despite the fact that his backside felt as if it had been used as a pin cushion by a giantess, at least it would get him away from the more mundane duties of lordship. If he had to rul
e on whether a boundary marker had been moved a few feet or a sheep rustled one more time it would be once too many.
The dust cloud paled and cleared away to the south in the light airs as the horseman veered from the road. Within a short time Osbeorn was waving a greeting, and the party paused on the fore slope as they awaited his arrival.
The rider slowed to a halt, and Eofer exchanged a look with Hemming as he noticed the seriousness of his duguth’s expression. Osbeorn dismounted and threw them a questioning look as Eofer twisted to show why they were all walking their mounts. ‘I got bitten on the arse by a wolf. And yes,’ he added as the big man’s face creased into a grin, ‘before you ask, it does hurt.’
Eofer nodded back towards the hall. At his back the sun was a hand’s breadth above the horizon, the day already hot. A drowsy hum came from the grassland which led up to the coastal road as crickets, roaches and horsefly basked in the heat of a perfect spring morning. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me the worst.’
Osbeorn took a peek behind his lord and smirked. ‘Apart from that you mean.’ He made an o with his lips in mock sympathy as those following on shared a chuckle. ‘Wealhtheow is here, lord, with a party of Wulfings.’
Eofer pulled a face as he sought to place the name. ‘The Danish queen, old King Hygelac’s wife?’
Osbeorn nodded. ‘The very same, the mother of young Hrothmund, the Dane who we rescued from the clutches of his wicked uncle. King Hrothulf let her return to her own people with her daughter.’ He gave a shrug. ‘She did raise him as her own after his father was killed after all. Not that it did her a lot of good. Anyway, she has come bearing handsome gifts, although,’ he said, with another look at his lord’s shredded breeks, ‘she probably could have timed it better, considering what they are.’
‘Yes, well,’ Eofer replied with a sigh of disappointment. ‘If we have exalted guests to entertain, it’s best that we get home as quickly as possible.’ Osbeorn caught the meaning immediately and knelt beside his lord, making a cup with his hands. Eofer hauled himself up onto his mount and lowered himself gingerly into the saddle as the men of his troop exchanged sly smirks of amusement at his discomfort.
