The Scathing

by C. R. May

  As the others protested, Eofer’s voice cut through the voices. ‘So what do you suggest we should do?’

  ‘Stay here, lord, with full force. Hemming needs us, Icel needs us and most of all the English settlers here need us. We know the lands to the west as well as anyone in the English army and we have the young Saxon too. Find out if he can be used to drive a wedge between the Saxons and Welsh and exploit it before the big battle which must surely come soon.’ Horsa cleared his throat again as the men in the mithraeum pondered his words. ‘I know that they saved you boys, and I understand the obligation which you are under, lord. But I heard your speech at the symbol, back in the old country, and I saw the effect that it had on the warriors there. You looked into the eye of Woden and what you saw there caused us to leave our motherland. The truth is,’ he added apologetically. ‘If his enemies do attack, King Heardred’s best chance of seeing this Yule is to tread the exile’s path.’

  Eofer’s spirits lifted as he saw that at least one of his duguth would agree with his actions so far. Unbeknown to them he had already set a play in motion. As the men refilled their cups and began to debate the choices, his mind was already elsewhere.

  ‘So, you see,’ Eofer said as his companions shifted uncomfortably on the benches and stared at the tabletop, ‘I cannot come yet. I will come, and come with all force as soon as I am able. But the situation here precludes it.’

  The young Geat blanched as he came to realise that the task he had been set by his king would go unfulfilled. ‘We will get you a fresh horse,’ Eofer was saying, ‘and get you back to your ship as soon as possible.’

  To everyone’s surprise the Geat shook his head. ‘No, lord,’ he said, ‘that’s not possible.’

  Eofer narrowed his eyes as the men of his troop stopped tracing patterns in the ale slops with their fingertips and looked up sharply. Einar went on. ‘I was charged with carrying a message here by King Heardred and ensuring that you reach him wherever he may be.’

  Eofer took a sip of ale. ‘My shipmaster can find Geatwic or Miklaborg without any help. I would even wager good silver that he could navigate the skerries off Marstrand blindfold, Einar.’

  The young Geat pulled himself up to his full height. ‘With respect, lord, my duty is only half fulfilled. The king explicitly charged me with conveying you into the presence of his person.’ He sat back and folded his arms as the Engles regarded him with looks of admiration. It took guts to stand up to the will of a man of reputation. ‘The fault is mine,’ he continued. ‘I have neglected to make the situation in my homeland clear to you.’

  Eofer recharged the lad’s cup and nodded that he continue.

  ‘It is unlikely that King Heardred or any other Geat bearing arms still resides in any of the places you mentioned. The countryside is overrun with Swedish war bands, the main towns would be little more than deathtraps if the king remained there. I was sent to you because I am regarded as the best scout in Geatland, if anyone can affect a meeting between you, I can.’

  Eofer sighed as the severity of the situation in his kinsman’s realm became plain. The weight of guilt hung about him like a wet winter cloak, and he was grateful when Horsa added his own thoughts to the conversation. ‘So, it is as well that Eofer was away from home when you arrived.’ Einar raised a brow in question, and the duguth explained. ‘Because if he had been, his wife, King Heardred’s sister, would have had us all in the Skua and sailing eastwards before the tang of sea salt had left your hair Einar. And where would that have got us?’

  The Geat’s nostrils flared at the tone in Horsa’s reply, and he fixed the Englishman with a stare. ‘I made my orders clear when I repeated the message from my lord to your own,’ he snapped:

  ‘Gather a mighty host about you‚ sword-bold victory thegn. Come east across the prow-plain; let us fight again shoulder to shoulder, Engle and Geat, as did our own fathers before us.’

  ‘The clue,’ he said icily, ‘is at the beginning. The “gather a mighty host,” part.’

  As the men stared unblinking at one another, Osbeorn shifted to one side and squeezed out a fart. ‘He’s got a point, Horsa,’ he sniffed, proud of his effort as snorts of amusement swept the group. ‘Of course,’ he added with a disarming smile. ‘Me and Octa know that, Einar, because we were there when you delivered your message. If my friend Horsa had been there he would have understood too.’ He pushed a bowl of pickled eggs across at the bemused Geat with his forefinger. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘treat yourself. It will help get rid of some of that trapped wind we are having to listen to.’

  Einar’s eyes narrowed as his mind attempted to untangle the weave of the duguth’s accent. Although the languages of Germania were as much cousins as the folk themselves, local variations in wordage and custom could sometimes cause confusion.

  The men of the hearth troop smothered smiles as they watched the Geat’s eyes narrow in suspicion. Einar was pretty sure that he was being insulted, but as yet his mind lacked the ability to cut through Osbeorn’s heavily accented English to confirm the fact.

  Eofer moved to nip the conflict in the bud. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, ‘you have had your fun. Einar here has travelled a long way to deliver an important message, a task which he has fulfilled faultlessly.’ He turned to the Geat as the others, the entertainment over for now, exchanged looks of amusement and went back to their cups. ‘Einar,’ he said, ‘I understand your dilemma, and I am sorry that the situation here keeps me from returning with you to your homeland at this time.’ He spread his hands. ‘You say that your instructions preclude you returning without me, so it looks as if you will be stuck here for a while at least. What would you like to do while you are here?’

  Einar opened his mouth to speak, but a burst of light split the room as the door was thrown open and a cry went up from the table at the foot of the stairs. They all glanced across in time to see Ioan’s leading man stomp into the room. He looked Eofer’s way before throwing a smile towards his mates and tipping an imaginary cup to his lips. As the Welshmen called for more ale, Cynfelyn sauntered across. A look from Eofer, and the youth were pushing back the benches, walking across to the nearest tables and taking the seats there to ensure that their lord’s conversation was out of earshot of any not sworn to be his man. ‘Come on Seaxwine,’ Grimwulf said. ‘Let’s try Tewdwr’s pork.’ Eofer gave his youth a nod of appreciation as they followed on. If this was the news that he was hoping for all well and good, if not they may have a problem on their hands.

  Cynfelin slipped onto the bench and sank a mouthful from an abandoned cup.

  Eofer waited until he had finished drinking and indicated the Geat at his side. ‘This is Einar Haraldson, he may be joining us for a while. You can speak freely, he has my full confidence.’

  The Briton exchanged a nod with the Geat and Eofer was pleased to see that his words had had the desired effect. Any tension which had bubbled over to reveal itself in the spat with Horsa seemed to have been quelled now that the man no longer felt an outsider in a foreign land. Osbeorn threw him a wink: ‘eat your egg, it will do you good.’

  The introduction made, Eofer spoke again. ‘Where is Ioan?’

  Cynfelyn grimaced and indicated Seaxwine with a jerk of his head. ‘Your boy’s da insisted that he remain a guest of the Saxons until this is all over. I am to act as a go-between until the deed is done.’

  Eofer nodded, it was a sensible precaution. Hostage exchange was a common arrangement in such situations but the Welshman was a bit of a rogue, not bound by any code of honour or lordship, and the possibility of betrayal still haunted him. Cynfelyn shook his head as he correctly read the thegn’s thoughts. ‘You will have to learn to trust us one day, lord,’ he said. ‘We may not be oath sworn to you, but we are on your side.’

  ‘You are right,’ Eofer replied, shamefaced. ‘I do trust you. So, the arrangements are made?’

  Cynfeyn smiled and grabbed an egg. ‘It’s all set,’ he said, taking a bite. ‘We do the deed on Midsummer night.
’

  10

  Eofer guided his mount to one side as he neared the crest of the hill. Horsa made to join him but the thegn indicated that he carry on with a gentle sweep of his head. The sky above was as dark as it would get on this auspicious day, as the light of the sun barely dipped below the western limits of Middle-earth before it reappeared in the east. On the slopes which climbed away from the eastern flank of Leircestre flames flickered as the population lit the fires which would help to strengthen the power of the sun as it began its long descent into the darkness of winter.

  Despite their Christianity, Eofer had been pleased to see that the British inhabitants of the town were as keen to keep up the old rituals as the Engles. The English might be setting fires to honour Balder and the Welshmen the old god Bel, but both were gods of light and the similarity between them was helping to bind the two populations together as they shared food, the ale loosened tongues and inhibitions, and differences were forgotten as they leapt the cleansing flames hand in hand. Both gods would be reborn at the winter solstice, and it did not take a leap of imagination to realise that, although the names were different, they must be one and the same.

  As usual, Eofer reflected with a sigh, the Christians had piggybacked the tale. A kindly old priest had patiently attempted to convince Eofer at the celebrations earlier that the Welsh now celebrated the day as Gŵyl Ifan Ganol Haf, which he had translated to the bemused Englishman as St John’s of Midsummer, born six months before their own lord of light Iesus Christ had descended to earth; but it was as clear as the nose on his face that the man was putting on a brave face as his flock cavorted drunkenly among the Bel flames.

  Cynfelyn came up, and Eofer tugged at the reins, turning the head of his mount back to the west as he fell in beside the Briton. They exchanged a smile, and Eofer was disappointed with himself as he realised that he still looked for reassurance in the man’s every move and word, despite what he had said back at the tavern. If Ioan was playing one side against the other Cynfelyn would be the first to die, but he had seen the bond which existed between the two men with his own eyes. Eofer prided himself on his judgement and despite the fact that Ioan was undoubtably a rogue and a cutthroat, he was sure that he had detected a sense of honour in the Briton; he thought it unlikely that he would sacrifice his friend’s life for silver. Nevertheless their lives and possibly the future of Leircestre burh itself was at stake, and he asked the man to go over the plan once again as they crested the rise and the flickering flames outside the town retreated into the paleness of midsummer night.

  Cynfelyn’s teeth flashed white as he smiled at the thegn. ‘You are right to be cautious, lord,’ he said, ‘but I promise that you have no need to fear treachery. Not only do we have more reason to hate the men of Powys than you Engles, but we make more silver in Anglia than we could ever hope to make in the hills and valleys of the west. Ioan and the boys all agree, lord,’ he said. ‘The arrival of your prince and his warriors into the middle lands is the best thing that could have happened to the people there, English and Welsh. These lands have been fought over for generations,’ he explained. ‘The last Arthur and his horsemen and their incessant wars against the Lindisware, and now Cynlas Goch and his spearmen want to do the same. Don’t forget, lord,’ he said, ‘we men of Gwent have been fighting against Powys what seems like forever. You English have only just discovered what bad neighbours they make.’

  Eofer snorted. ‘It’s true, I sometimes forget that the enmity between the British kingdoms goes back further and deeper than any hostility felt towards the English.’

  The column passed into the blackness of the woodland, and Cynfelyn turned to Eofer with a hint of mischief. ‘So, now that we are all friends again. Which part do you wish me to go over again, lord?’

  The English thegn chuckled softly as the horses walked on. He was pleased that Ioan had sent his amiable friend with the news that the meeting had been arranged. His mind was as sharp as a seax blade, he could see why they got along so well. Reassured, Eofer replied as his own mind began to tease apart the weft and weave of his plan once again. ‘Tell me it all, we have all night.’

  ‘Well,’ the Briton began, ‘just as the boys settled down at their favourite table to spend their ill-gotten gains from the raid on the Cair, Ioan pitches up and tells us to drink up, half of us are off again.’ He threw Eofer a look, and the thegn chuckled as his mind’s eye pictured the long faces. ‘As you can imagine, that went down well with the unfortunates who were chosen, so it was just as well that Ioan told them that king’s bane would have settled their tallies with Tewdwr by the time they got back.’ Eofer gaped in surprise, but he chuckled when he saw the broad smile plastered across the Welshman’s face. ‘Maybe I will. It will be worth the price if this thing works.’

  It was Cynfelyn’s turn to look surprised at the Englishman’s response to his joke, and a look of reflection came to his face. ‘Ioan could be right,’ he said finally. ‘The boys and I grew up hating all Germans; pagan wolves who stole our ancestral lands and drove us west we were always told. Our churchmen preach that God has sent you to punish us for our sins, but the British people are not the sinful ones. They ask only that they be allowed to live their lives free from injustice, to be left in peace to raise their families without fear. But we live in an age of tyrants, as those who already possess more gold and land than they could need for a hundred lifetimes fight over the scraps which remain. Ioan believes that the English here in the east and the Saxons in the south will sweep away these despots and I am coming to share that hope.’

  Eofer peered up ahead at the tall figure of the Geat as the Briton spoke. Given the choice between rejoining his friends at the ship back in Snæpe and tagging along, Einar Haraldson had leapt at the chance to see new lands as any scout would. Eofer was glad to have him along: sharp eyes and a sharper sword were always welcome. Despite the gloom, he could just make out the Saxon boy in the midst of his duguth. He was, he was now certain, the key which would unlock this new order of which Cynfeyn spoke, at least in the lands surrounding the valley of the Trenta, and he felt a flicker of excitement as he recognised the work of the gods in it. It meant that his decision to plant Hemming and his colonists deep within British lands had been part of their scheming, and he was sure too that his decision to delay his journey to Geatland was the correct one.

  Cynfelyn was still speaking at his side, but he knew the tale now and, reassured that all would be well he only listened to the odd snippet as the horses plodded on. It was the first time that he had ridden north from the town, and he ran a practised eye across the land as a half moon rose in the east. The night was warm, the smoky air as thick as a winter stew as the horses hugged the eastern edge of the woodlands. Men sweated in mail, cloaks and helms and the moonlight made cat-tails of the channels of the River Leir as they snaked away and edged behind a small hill.

  Eofer drew his mount aside as he took a last look at the valley before the trees closed in once again, indicating that the Briton continue with a jerk of his head. Cynfelyn had hardly moved a few paces before Einar, keen for local knowledge, pulled back to ride at his side, and Eofer sniggered to himself as he watched their animated antics as they struggled against the lilt and burr of their accents to converse in broken English.

  If the track up ahead was as useful as Cynfelyn promised, Eofer had great plans forming in his own mind for its future use. As the young Geat was intent on staying on until the duty owed his king had been fulfilled, he could also be put to good use. Scouting was rarely taught, the best had it in their blood. Backwoodsmen, men who thought of the depths of the forest not as the haunt of wolf-heads, dark elves and orcs, but as a place which provided them with all that they required to live well enough; a year-long larder far from towns and settlements with their rules, taxes and obligations to king, thegn and ealdorman. Geats, Swedes and Finns were among the best to be found anywhere in the north, and Eofer was quietly thrilled by the unexpected addition of one of the highly prized
men within the ranks of his troop.

  Within the hour the pair were leading them away from the stone sets of the Roman way, forging onward as the path turned from dressed stone to dusty track and the outliers of the great woodland to the west stood out as dark as a line of bladderwrack on a sun bleached strand. They picked up the pace as the night wore on, skirting a small collection of huts whose occupants decided to ignore the warning yaps of their dogs, valuing safety above all else as a war band rode through the darkness of the witching hours in the troubled land.

  Soon they were back among the trees, and the path narrowed as the shadows moved in to muffle the hoof fall of their mounts. By the time that the moon had reached its highest point in the sky to the south Cynfelyn was leading the party along a smaller path, and Eofer, despite the trust which he placed in his guide, eyed the shadows as the trees pressed in and the night sky became little more than a star speckled strip above them. If they were to come under surprise attack, this was as good a place as any, but the passage passed without incident and before another hour had passed they were through, pouring out onto a scrubby hillside and thankful to put the shadows behind them.

  Ahead, Eofer saw the men of his duguth move their horses into a protective arc, slipping hands into shield grips and hefting spears as Horsa manoeuvred the hostage safely into the grip of the armoured fist and waited for his lord to come up.

  Eofer drew rein, exchanging a look and a nod with his new weorthman. ‘Ready?’

  Horsa nodded grimly, and Eofer sought to lighten the mood as he recognised the tension which hung heavy in the air around him. ‘You could be about to take the name of your sword.’

  ‘Lord?’

  Eofer smiled. ‘Fame-Bright: Weorthman for a single day.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a fame of sorts.’