The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Hemming had noticed Eofer’s despondency and shot him a sympathetic smile. ‘No war-sword this time eh, lord?’

  They shared a chuckle at the transparency of his emotions as Osbeorn fell back to question the others about the mad wolf, and Hemming continued as the rest of the hunting party mounted their own steeds and fell into line.

  ‘Astrid will be loving that, lord,’ he said. ‘It’s not everyday that a queen comes calling.’

  Eofer rolled his eyes. ‘Good for her.’

  Hemming cleared his throat as Eofer squirmed in the saddle, desperately attempting to find a comfortable position as the horse picked its way down the slope. ‘She’s still a bit tetchy then?’

  Eofer nodded.

  ‘About the fact that you are still a thegn?’

  ‘It's something which she will have to get used to,’ he snapped as the discomfort shortened his temper. ‘I am not ready to be tied to hearth and hall, I want to be free to carry my sword wherever I please.’

  They shared a look, and Eofer snorted. Both men knew that it was enough of an apology for the ill tempered reply and the duguth ploughed on. ‘You did tell her that king Eomær had pressed you to accept your father’s old ealdormanship though?’

  Eofer let out a bitter laugh. ‘No, that would only make matters worse between us. At the moment Astrid is laying most of the blame for my lowly status on the king’s shoulders. If she knew the truth…’ He let the conclusion hang in the air as they gained the ridge top roadway and guided their mounts along the track which led to the hall.

  Hemming probed again. If his lord was troubled it was his duty as both friend and weorthman to help in any way that he could. ‘And this has all worsened since her brother became king of Geats?’

  ‘Well yes,’ Eofer sighed. ‘But it was becoming a problem even earlier than that. You have to understand that Astrid never expected her immediate family to come so close to the king helm. At the time she was married off to me it must have seemed a good match to her father, Hygelac. Although his own father was king of Geats, he had two elder brothers who stood between him and the kingship when the old man eventually died. But the gods, as they say, are fickle. Suddenly, within a year they were all dead, Hygelac was king and Astrid was no longer content to be the wife of an English thegn. That was bad enough, but then her father goes off and gets himself killed in Frankland and Heardred, her brother, is now king.’

  Hemming drew in a breath as the ramifications of Astrid’s meteoric rise through the ranks of Geatish nobility began to dawn upon him. ‘And with Heardred childless, for now at least, that makes her sons, your sons, the next in line to the Geatish king helm.’

  Eofer flicked him a meaningful look as Hemming’s mind worked through the ramifications. Hemming set his face into a scowl, and Eofer knew that his duguth had reached the same conclusion which he too had reached over the winter months, as the warmth between Astrid and himself had cooled with the season and he had set to thinking during the long nights. ‘So you think that she is already plotting to have you replaced with a far loftier husband? The son of a lowly English thegn is unlikely to attract many swords to his banner.’

  Eofer shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  ‘And the boys?’ Hemming asked, fearful of the reply. ‘Weohstan is already in the care of her brother.’

  ‘Would be in her way if she intended to remarry after I meet with my unfortunate accident. You saw what happened in Dane Land last year. Young lads who get in the way of women who think they deserve better often meet with accidents of their own. It’s not like her family find such a thing unthinkable. Hythcyn, the second brother ‘accidentally’ killed his older sibling during a hunt. Then their father, king Hrethel, died in his care. Following that of course,’ he added with a look, ‘he was hunted down himself by his younger brother Hygelac and his English allies. You will recall that of course Hemming,’ he said. ‘We were there.’

  Hemming nodded. ‘At Ravenswood. We got there too late and the king of Swedes had beaten us to it. Not that it did King Ongentheow any good either,’ he said, allowing himself a brief wolfish smile despite the gloomy conversation. ‘He too fell beneath the sword of a certain Englishman the following morning, a man who earned himself the title king’s bane by the killing. But,’ he continued, ‘surely you are getting carried away, Eofer? Heardred was brought up in your father’s household when he was at foster. It’s no exaggeration to say that without your family’s support and protection, neither Hygelac nor Heardred would ever have become king. It was only a few years ago that we,’ he paused and looked across to add emphasis to his words, ‘by we I mean you, his kinsman, appeared from nowhere to save him from the vengeance of a Frankish fleet off Frisia. That must count for something?’

  Eofer snorted and threw his weorthman a sympathetic look. ‘You underestimate the power of the king helm old friend, it’s a madness that creeps up on folk without them even realising. I have seen with my own eyes how it changes people. They start to look at the world as if peering down a dark tunnel, all they see is the glittering prize at the end, beckoning them onward, until nothing else matters but to have it for their own. You have to understand,’ he said, ‘the Geats are in a weak position at home. A large part of their army was destroyed along with King Hygelac in Frankland. Their greatest ally, us, has migrated across the sea, just as a bloodletting among their powerful neighbours, the Danes and the Swedes, has installed energetic new kings. Not only do such kings like to start off their reign with a handy victory or two, especially if they have usurped the king helm, but, thanks in part to us, the Geats have become host to renegade princes from both nations.’

  Hemming pursed his lips and nodded sadly as the reality of the situation dawned upon him. ‘So, even if the Geats give up these æthelings they will still need to form an alliance with one or other of their neighbours, if only to dissuade the other from attacking them.’

  Eofer fixed him with a stare. ‘Neither the Swedes nor the Danes happen to have a spare princess of the right age at the moment, so King Heardred can’t sacrifice himself on the grisly alter of marriage on behalf of his kingdom. Which leaves Astrid as the only marriageable member of the Geatish royal house who could be used to forge an alliance.’

  A cry of acclamation drew their eyes ahead, and both men saw to their surprise that they were almost home. Eofer hauled at his reins as the dusty pathway which led to the hall came abreast of the riders, and he was pleased to see that the men of his hearth troop were armed and alert. Friendly or not, foreign men were on his land and it paid to prepare for treachery, however unlikely that seemed.

  Eofer dismounted as the women came through the doorway, lowering himself painfully to the ground at their approach. Tall, distinguished and handsomely dressed in a sable dress which set off the darkness of her hair, Wealhtheow beamed as she approached. ‘Ealdorman Eofer,’ she began brightly. ‘I have brought gifts which I hope that you will find acceptable, however inadequately they express my gratitude at the saving of my son’s life.’

  Eofer caught a glimpse of Hemming wincing at his side at the mistake which the visitor had made in his rank. At Wealhtheow’s side Astrid was flushing at the description, and it was all that Eofer could do to push down the laugh which built within him as her mouth puckered in anger. Eofer returned the smile as the queen came forward, oblivious to the tension which her innocent mistake had caused in those around her. Things were rapidly going from bad to worse between them, but Eofer pushed the cares aside. He would deal with the fall-out from the slip tomorrow, this night was made for drinking.

  ‘Is the prince here?’ Eofer replied as he led the women back towards the hall. He shot Hemming a wicked look. ‘I know that my lads would love to match him cup for cup. Men who have stood shoulder to shoulder at the clash of shields share a unique brotherhood.’ The trio had reached the doorway, and the women stepped aside to allow the lord of the hall to enter first as was right. A quick glance was all that was needed for Astrid to flush with embarrassmen
t at the sight of her husband’s bare arse on show for all to see, and she moved across to cover his nakedness as best she could. Wealhtheow averted her eyes, hiding her smile with a hand as Astrid hissed. ‘We need to talk, tomorrow when they have gone.’

  Eofer felt himself die a little inside at the words but, to his joy the chance never came. In the morning, as the Wulfings took their leave nursing sore heads and bearing fine gifts of their own back across the River Aldu and the first of the wandering birds returned to slash the blue sky above, the war-sword finally arrived.

  3

  A heartfelt cheer broke the peace of the glade as the riders exchanged weary smiles. ‘It looks like we have arrived then, lord.’

  Eofer threw his weorthman a smile as Finn waited for them on the lip of the rise, the width of the youth’s smile all the confirmation that they required. ‘It’s about time too,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think that my teeth could have taken much more rye bread.’

  Hemming gave a snort and rolled his eyes. ‘That’s because you grew up the privileged son of an ealdorman.’ He pulled a face and shrugged as Eofer’s eyes widened at his frankness. ‘Well, it is true lord. Most of the lads here will have lived on the same, especially at this time of the year. Early summer can be the hardest time for the common folk. The grain bins contain little more than husks and dry stalks and the trees and hedgerows are empty of fruit, nuts and berries. Snaring a rabbit can get the family through a few more days.’ He cast a look into the darkness of the forest which hemmed them in as he spoke. ‘Especially out here in the borderlands where it might be unsafe to wander. The silver which you paid them for their hospitality will get the families through to the harvest with a bit left over. The gods smiled on them the day that a thegn of their nation and his hearth troop appeared out of the blue.’

  Eofer nodded that he understood. ‘Well, they will be seeing a lot more English warriors out here now the people are settled in Anglia. Now that Icel has moved out here with his own hearth troop, our settlers can begin to push further north and west. They can hunt deer in the greenwood and flash their perfect teeth in safety,’ he quipped as they finally crested the rise. The pair reined in as they came alongside Finn, and they shared a grin as their eyes followed the line of the Via Devana, the old paved road which arrowed across the island of Britain from the Saxon settlements around Colnecestre to the South, to the distant city of Deva near the great seas to the West.

  A week earlier they had picked up the ancient road at the English settlement of Grantebrycge. Hacked out of the great wood the Engle now called Brunes Wald and paved by the army of Rome centuries before the old route, though unkempt and failing in places, was still the swiftest way to reach the new settlements on the frontier.

  The group ran their eyes over the town of Ratae for the first time as they waited for the column to close up. Nestling against the eastern bank of the River Leir, the town lay cloaked beneath a blanket of smoke as fires were lit and food prepared for the evening to come. The high stone walls which encompassed the town glowed pink in the light of the westering sun, and Eofer raised his gaze to take in the marshy valley floor and the distant tree line which marked the continuation of the great forest. On the high point the white dragon of Anglia snaked in the light airs alongside the raven battle banner of king Eomær’s son, while capping it all a swirl of crows circled as they spied out easy pickings in the town below. ‘Let’s get down there,’ he said as the men of his own hearth troop crested the rise, ‘and find out why the ætheling has sent for us. I can’t wait to see his face when we deliver our gift to him.’

  Hemming twisted in the saddle and looked back along the column. ‘Sure, he will be overjoyed to see them,’ he said. ‘It’s a long walk to the western sea. Fifty of the finest geldings, true war horses,’ he breathed. ‘And to think that Eadward wanted to throw him off the Hwælspere.’

  They shared a smile as their minds drifted back to that spring morning. The Danish prince, Hrothmund Hrothgarson, had sought sanctuary on the English ship but the forces of the new king of Daneland were chasing him down. They had had to abandon the warship in Scania to save the Dane from his cousin’s huscarls but the young man’s mother, Wealhtheow, was aware of the pressing need for war horses in the new Anglian kingdom and had repaid the debt and more besides.

  All eyes in the column were upon him as they waited for the order to move down into the valley, and Eofer called his banner man across as he sought to put on a show. ‘Grimwulf, raise my herebeacn. Let them know that we have arrived.’ The youth unfastened the travel bindings, shaking out the battle flag before raising it into the evening air and falling into place behind his lord. The banner shone as the waning sunlight caught the scarlet and golden threads, and Eofer led them proudly into the vale as the rest of the column, their destination in sight, made a final effort to reach their goal after a hard day on the road.

  Eofer flicked a look at Hemming as folk straightened their backs in the surrounding fields to watch the arrival of the famous eorle, the man who had slain a king on the field of battle, the same man who had burnt the hall of their greatest enemy on its mound. ‘How do you think that Osbeorn and the lads have got on, eating dust all day?’ Hemming’s mouth widened into a grin, and he let out a chuckle as the first of the wagons waddled down the slope like a line of fat ducks. ‘He’ll be looking to wash that dust from his throat, lord, and eat whatever is going.’

  Eofer snorted. ‘And he won’t be alone in that.’

  They had begun to gather a tail of settlers as soon as they had passed through the fleama dyke and picked up the Via Devana. Once past Grantebrycge English settlements became as rare as hens teeth as the resurgent greenwood threatened to swallow up the work of men. It was perfect country for wolf heads, outlaws, lordless men who lived off the hard work of others, and Eofer had been happy to shepherd them to safety despite the delay it would cause. Britons were known to harry the English settlers, fast moving war bands coming up from the South and west to kill and burn, rustling the cattle and sheep on which the new territories depended. Warriors were here now in numbers, but, unable to carry horses across the sea they had been sacrificed wholesale to the gods before the people had left old Engeln. With Icel looking to build a kingdom for himself in the West he would need settlers to fill those lands and horse thegns to protect them. Besides, Eofer knew, the sight of playful children had lifted the spirits of his own men, something they needed after the death of Rand the previous autumn and Spearhafoc’s painful banishment.

  The light dimmed suddenly as the great gatehouse of the town obscured the sun, and Eofer was brought back from his thoughts as they came up on Ratae’s burial ground. He shook his head in agreement as he saw Hemming instinctively touch his fingertips to the hammer which hung at his throat.

  ‘What do they call these places?’

  ‘A necropolis, lord.’

  Eofer nodded, but could not suppress a slight shiver as he did so. He had seen many of these necropoleis, here in Britain and in Frankia, but he knew that he would never see them as anything other than an alien imposition on the northern lands, however long his life thread ran. The houses of the dead ran the length of the road, from the city gate almost to the foot of the hill down which they had just travelled. Small structures resembling the homes of the living, their grandeur reflecting the wealth and importance of the occupant in life. Large and small, some were colonnaded in the style of the Romans while others looked to have incorporated more native elements. Eofer held a grudging respect for the ones which had done so. To retain a sense of nationhood, a distinct otherness, even through centuries of occupation was a thing of worth. Other grave markers, less elaborate than the ornate columns and inscribed markers nearer the road, marked the final resting place of Rome’s less distinguished citizens; the graves becoming plainer, chased wood replacing chiselled stone, until they petered out completely.

  Hemming spoke again, shaking his head as the horses plodded on. ‘It’s not decent, treating your dead
as if they are still living. Folk should be buried away from settlements, lords and kings in their barrow, commoners cremated and interred in urns. All this,’ he said with a sweep of his arm. ‘It’s all a bit, well, spooky.’

  He was interrupted by a cry from above, and the pair raised their eyes to see the face of Icel grinning down at them from the gatehouse. ‘Eofer’s here,’ he cried out as the men flanking him chuckled happily. ‘And look what he has brought us. War can’t be far away!’ Eofer allowed himself a snort of his own at the sight of his prince. Known by the nickname of Haystack on account of his unruly blond mop, the king’s son radiated good humour like heat from a winter hearth. The ætheling’s mood was infectious, and Eofer sensed the cares of the journey and the lingering discomfort of a wolf-bitten arse melt away like smoke on the wind as those around him echoed the smiles.

  Icel disappeared as Eofer passed smiling spearmen and crossed the threshold into the fortress, the sound of hooves echoing loudly in the space. Icel’s outline appeared in a doorway and he cried out as he bounded across. ‘Welcome to Leircestre. What took you so long?’

  Eofer slipped from his saddle, pushing down the desire to kneed life and feeling into his aching buttocks as he dipped his head in supplication. ‘We picked up a few waifs and strays along the way, lord. Farming folk eager for land.’

  ‘Well, land is what we have and settlers are what we need.’ He looked across to Eofer’s weorthman and nodded a greeting: ‘Thrush.’

  Hemming beamed at the familiarity, as Octa led the first of Wealhtheow’s gift horses through the gateway and into the city. Icel’s eyes shone with delight at the sight, and the little group walked across as Octa corralled the herd in the shadow of the great stone wall. ‘These are beautiful, Eofer,’ the ætheling breathed. ‘Where did you get them?’