by C. R. May
The sharp rap of bare knuckles on wood told Eofer that it was time, and the eorle cast his eyes around the small room as his vision began to blur. Opposite him Osbeorn was leaning forward, clutching at air and laughing like a halfwit as he attempted to grasp the handle of the ladle and refill his cup. The strong mead had woven its spell, the little group more than merry, and the giddiness which indicated that the Allfather had entered their minds held them firmly in its grip. It was time for the next part of the ritual, and Eofer screwed up his face as he took in the details of the stone tablet set into the wall above his head.
They were seated within a mithraeum, a temple dedicated to the god Mithras. The deity had been avidly worshipped by the soldiers of Rome in days gone by, but it could only have been the fact that the tiny shrine had been concealed beneath a much larger building which had saved it from the cleansing zeal of the Christians who had taken over the Empire more than a century before. An old Welshman had described the details of the religion to Eofer at the start of the evening as Icel had thrashed out the terms of the deal with Ceretic ap Cynfawr, and he had agreed with the ætheling’s view; the place was ideal for the ceremony which he knew he had delayed for far too long.
The image depicted the god tussling with a bull, and the Engle recalled the words of the aged Briton as his drink fuddled mind took in the details. Mithras had hunted the sacred bull until, exhausted, he had dragged it into a cave for slaughter. Gripping the bull by the nostrils, Mithras was tugging the animal’s head back as he prepared to stab at its throat with a short dagger. Other details swam into focus, strange to him but powerful all the same as were all gods-images. A dog and a snake are licking at the blood which poured from the bull’s wound, and a strange otherworldly creature with crab-like claws and a curved dagger for a tail is attacking the animal’s genitals. Mithras looks at the sun as he strikes down the bull as if in sacrifice, and the moon is being drawn away on a cart in much the same way that it travelled the heavens in his own gods-tales.
The scene explained why the temple was built underground, it was obvious even to a man of the North that the room represented the cave in the image, the fading and timeworn blue paint which covered the ceiling a representation of the sky. The floor of the room was obscured by the debris and grime of a century of disuse, but the facing panels of the twin benches which lined the walls still carried images of naked spearmen and a winged man with a monstrous head.
Faces were turned his way, and the eorle swilled the last of the honeyed drink before he drained the dregs, tossing the cup to the floor as he slid from the bench. The others followed his actions, and the rowdiness drained away with the drink as Eofer’s duguth composed themselves for the ritual to come.
The initiates, Finn and Horsa, mirrored the warriors on the temple reliefs, each man naked save from his wide belt and baldric, the empty scabbard a sign of the gift to come. The pair slipped their helms upon their heads as they approached the doorway, exchanging a look of determination as they tightened the straps and ascended the steps.
The cool of the evening was a balm to the mead-giddy men as they left the fug of the temple and climbed into the slanting light above. Ahead of them three of Icel’s gesith were surrounding the dark outline of a bull, its heaving flanks blushed scarlet by the light of the returning sun. As Finn and Horsa walked forward the warriors hauled on ropes looped around the great neck of the beast, dragging it forward and down until its front legs gave way under the strain and the animal fell to its knees.
The third gesith stepped forward to offer a seax to the pair, and Finn took the short sword as Horsa lowered himself onto the bull’s shoulder. As Eofer and his doughty men looked on Horsa reached forward, hooking his fingers into the animal’s nostrils to haul the great head skywards with a grunt of effort. In an echo of the scene on the tablet in its underground vault, Finn stepped in to open the beast’s throat in a hot rush of blood as the power of the moment crackled the air.
Finn exchanged a look with his fellow initiate, and Eofer recognised the moment they became of one mind. The younger man continued cutting, working the razor sharp blade back and forth as Horsa tightened his grip, and as the beast’s eyes rolled back and its legs kicked out in its final moments, Horsa wrenched the great head from the neck in a torrent of blood. The bull’s body spasmed as the severed head was held aloft to steam in the cool morning air, and Finn rose to stand beside his new brother as the gory trophy was turned towards the dawn.
A cry rolled around the ruins as the warriors hailed the spirit of the sacrifice, and Finn moved down to open the chest of the bull, reaching inside to draw its great heart out into the light. As he held the bloody organ forward towards his lord, Eofer dipped his head, tearing a mouthful before they all moved in to take a bite of their own. The great heart was passed from man to man, reddening beards and chests as they retraced their steps for the culmination of the ceremony.
Back in the mithraeum Eofer took his place on the gift stool. At his place, beneath the watching eye of the Persian god, the thegn lowered his own grim helm onto his head as he prepared to add the pair to the ranks of his most trusted warriors.
Horsa came forward first, kneeling before his chosen lord as his brothers looked on. Thrush Hemming moved to his lord’s side, holding out a silver chalice as Eofer drew Gleaming and made a cut. Octa and Osbeorn came forward to repeat the action with their own blades, each man making a fist to squeeze the lifeblood from his palm into the bowl before them.
Eofer turned his gaze back onto the figure kneeling before him.
‘Horsa, I offer you a place at my hearth as a doughty man, a trusted duguth. Become a brother in blood to those around you, hold their lives dearer to your heart than your own as you step forward together to the place of slaughter, where file-hardened spears stab from fists, grim darts fly forth, bows sing and shields resound in the bitter clash of war. Pledge, here before us all, never to leave the field before your ring giver, whether he lives and fights on or lies fallen in grim battle-play. Is it in your heart to accept this offer?’
Horsa raised his head to look at his lord, the weight of the moment heavy in his expression.
‘I so pledge, lord.’
Eofer took up a sword from his lap, holding it forward with both hands as Horsa moved his own up to grip the silvered blade. Despite the reverence of the moment, Eofer heard the soft intake of breath as the surprised duguth recognised the sword before him. He had heard the tale of Imma Gold’s death, fighting heroically between the armies at the place in Juteland known as The Crossing. The duguth’s sacrifice that day had bought the beleaguered English force enough time to withstand the Jutish onslaught, saving the lives of his lord and brothers until Icel’s relieving army had arrived to win the day.
Eofer spoke again. ‘Accept Fame-Bright, renowned blade: bear it forward with pride.’
Horsa took the blade and moved back. As he did so, Eofer slipped a golden arm ring from his forearm and slid the hoop onto Gleaming’s wide blade. Horsa moved the tip of Fame-Bright forward until the sword points came together, and the hushed room echoed to the sound of gold grating on steel as the ring slid from thegn to duguth. Sheathing the sword Horsa moved forward to place his hands on Eofer’s knee, laying his forehead there as his lord‘s hands came to rest upon them.
Horsa’s part in the ceremony had reached its conclusion, and his new brothers boomed their acclamation, beating out a staccato thrum on the dusty floor with the heel of their spears. Finn moved forward to take the oath, and soon the ritual was completed.
Eofer drank deeply from the chalice containing the broth of bloody mead as backs were slapped and grins split beards all around. As the vessel was passed from man to man and the latest additions to his blood-brotherhood were acclaimed by their peers, Eofer settled back and watched the revelry with a look of satisfaction.
Imma Gold would be a tough act to follow, but Horsa’s amiable exterior hid a core of iron. Already an experienced warrior, the man had suffered the
miseries of surviving his lord and hearth mates and would be in no hurry to repeat the sense of shame which accompanied it.
Finn had shown bravery, steadfastness and cunning during the fighting in Daneland and the chase through Scania. He had all the makings of a fine duguth, and Eofer was certain that he would blossom under the ongoing tutelage of his new brothers.
The chalice had been drained, the initiations completed as Eofer led his men back out into the bright light of dawn. A deep hole had been dug outside the doorway and the men clustered around as he took up the bull head by the horns and made the final dedication.
Tiw, the war god, would be pleased by the additions to his doughty men Eofer reflected as the thing was lowered into the earth.
After the conversations of the previous evening it seemed certain that they would be fighting again, and soon.
5
Leaning on the parapet of the city wall, the men watched as the column wound its way northwards, climbed the valley side and disappeared from view. Eofer and Hemming shared a grin. ‘Thank the gods. I thought that they would never leave!’
The pair turned back, resting their backs against the ancient stonework as their eyes took in the town below them. An area had been cleared and a new settlement was rising from the ruins of the old, the thatch of the roofs a golden bronze against the darker background, smoke-blackened from the fire which had destroyed the area around the old forum in the days of their grandfather’s grandfather. In the far corner a tumbledown tower showed the remains of a Christian church, stark against the lightening skyline like a giant hollow tooth, its worshippers long gone to heaven or hell. The first wagons were entering by the gate below them, and the thegn indicated that they take the stairway as bovine lowing and the smell of sweat and dung drifted up to them from the cattle on their way to slaughter in the town. ‘Come on,’ Eofer said with a flick of his head, ‘let’s go and meet this Briton of Osbeorn’s. If he can help us, he is about to become a rich man.’
The pair descended the steps, the clack clack of their footsteps echoing back from the stone wall as they went. ‘Do you think that we can do it, lord?’
Eofer nodded. ‘The gods have always been with us before Thrush, and the guda says that the signs are clear. They crave disorder, if only for their entertainment. Icel said that he had men out shadowing the Powys army who would give us ample warning if they got too close to Leircestre.’
Hemming snorted and cocked a brow. ‘That will not help much if we are not here to receive the message though.’
Eofer flashed a wicked grin. ‘You must be getting old, Thrush. I can leave you here if you want.’
‘Just you try!’
Eofer hopped across a puddle as they reached the ground level and looked back. ‘Which way?’
‘They will be in The Tewdwr, lord.’
‘The ale house next to the main gate?’
Hemming nodded as he skirted the muddy pool. ‘That’s the one, the lads have got their own bench there. The food is hearty and plentiful and the ale is strong and dark.’
‘Who found it?’
A twinkle entered Hemming’s eye. ‘Ozzy.’
‘Pickled eggs?’
‘They have now.’
They shared a laugh as they edged the town wall. Up ahead the cattle had cleared the archway and the spearmen were back at their station. Above them the early morning sun glinted on spearpoints as the guards in the tower, weary from the night watch, stared with red rimmed eyes back up the Via Devana, past the necropolis to the dark line of the woodlands beyond.
‘So, tell me about this brigand. Can he be trusted?’
‘Ioan?’ Hemming shrugged. ‘Probably not, but he’s no fool. He knows that he would be the first to die if he led us into a trap.’
Eofer paused at the gate as Hemming crossed towards the taverna, exchanging a few lighthearted words with the guards before moving on. All fighting men whatever their rank had experienced the bone numbing boredom of the night watch, and the thegn knew that a few words from the king’s bane, the new commander of the town now that the ætheling was away, would add a little pep to their stride as they awaited the longed for relief. Hemming was waiting at the entrance and Eofer shook his head in amusement as he came up. ‘Sounds busy.’
The big duguth threw a reply over his shoulder as he pushed the door open. ‘Always is on market day, lord. Once the livestock are safely in their pens the drovers hightail it over here to wash the road dust from their throats and fill their bellies. The men who have furthest to travel will not reach the town until midmorning. That gives the early birds the chance to grab the best tables.’
Eofer watched as Hemming took a pace inside the dimly lit room, his hand moving to the handle of the short seax at his waist as he scanned the room for any sign of danger. Satisfied that it was safe for his lord to enter he moved further in, stepping to one side with a smile and a flick of his head. ‘There are our boys in the corner, lord.’
Eofer paused, sweeping the room with his gaze as he took in the scene before him. Wood scraped as his hearth men rose to their feet at the appearance of their ring giver, heads turning his way as men cut short their conversations to see the cause of the interruption. The room, Eofer could now see, was a large rectangle with a floor laid to flagstones surrounding a central hearth. Wispy sparks curled upwards as a log settled into the ash, the flames flaring before settling back to a dull red glow.
Along the far wall a heavy-set man with close-cropped crow-black hair above a clean shaven face paused just long enough to take in the new entrants. Recognising Eofer for who he was, the man left the girl to her duties and painted his face with a welcoming smile. Wiping his hands on a grimy cloth he bobbed his head as he came across. ‘Welcome lord,’ he beamed, ‘your fame goes before you. You show me honour visiting my establishment.’ He leaned in as close as his station in life allowed. ‘Let myself or one of the girls know anything that you require,’ he added, lowering his voice and thumbing his nose. ‘If I don’t have it here already, it’s a fair bet that old Tewdwr knows a man who can get it in a trice.’
Eofer nodded his thanks as he made his way across. Osbeorn shuffled along the bench, clearing a space at the head of the table as they approached. ‘Welcome, lord,’ he said as a cup was produced and the first ale of the day flowed, ‘to our favourite bolt-hole.’
The men grinned as Eofer took his place, sinking the ale with relish and holding out the cup for a refill. He ran his tongue across his lips, sucking in the froth from his moustache as he waited for the next cupful. ‘So,’ he asked as Osbeorn poured, ‘where is this dodgy lad of yours?’
Osbeorn rolled his eyes upwards as the other members of Eofer’s hearth troop exchanged knowing looks. A group of drinkers at the far end of the room were beating the table in time, and Eofer screwed up his face in question.
‘You see those stairs built into the end wall, lord?’
Eofer looked across to a series of stone steps, the middle of their treads dished by the footfalls of men long since gone to the grave. Climbing upwards where his duguth had indicated the steps ended abruptly, to be replaced for the final few feet by roughly hewn blocks of wood which disappeared into the void of the roof above. Eofer saw for the first time that most of the upper level of the building had been removed at some time in the past and replaced by wattle and daub, the great roof beams blackened and scarred by fire long ago. They must, he decided, have been reused from the damaged buildings he had seen earlier with Icel in the central forum when the folk had begun to rebuild the city after the devastation. Osbeorn was continuing his explanation as Eofer’s eyes were drawn upward. ‘There is a room up there were the girls take their customers. It’s right above that table, and the lads there think that it’s great fun to bang the table in time with the drumming on the ceiling.’ The rhythmic beat increased in speed and then finished with a final bang of fists against wood and the clatter of pewter drinking pots as the performance came to an abrupt end. As cheers and laughter
filled the room, Osbeorn leaned in with a smirk. ‘That will be our lad on his way now, lord.’
As if in confirmation, the heads of the drinkers turned upwards as a pair of tough leather boots appeared at the head of the staircase. Within moments the room was in uproar as the legs and body of the Welshman appeared, and Eofer studied the man as he acknowledged the cheers and catcalls with a wide smile. He had expected to find the rustler a gnarled old veteran, short and stocky and carrying the scars of a lifetime spent at his dangerous trade but, to his surprise, Eofer saw that the man before him was anything but. Not much older than his own new duguth, Finn, deep blue eyes peeked out beneath a mop of chestnut hair which contained just enough curl to attract the attention of the girls and keep it. His clothing, far from being the rough workaday greens and browns common in his line of work, were almost as fine as Eofer’s own. Checked trews in the British style were topped by a shirt as blue as any midsummer sky, both items edged with golden braiding which sparkled in the gloom of the room. Eofer cursed. Far from blending in this Welshman was the life and soul of the place, he would have to bring his plans forward if they were to have any chance of success.
The men of Eofer’s hearth troop picked up on the change in their lord’s mood immediately, and Octa and Horsa rose from the table and led the others to the two tables nearest to their own. A quiet word with the drinkers there and Eofer’s men were slipping into their places, both groups sent on their way with a pitcher of ale to compensate them for their trouble.
