The Scathing

by C. R. May

  He glanced at Seaxwine. ‘Are you ready?’

  Without waiting for the answer, Eofer urged his horse forward with a squeeze of his knees. The eastern slope of the hill arced away to the north as the stallion followed the old track upwards towards the summit, the route before them hugging the contours as it snaked up to the ridge line and doglegged towards the gateway. He ran his eyes across the ancient work as the horse climbed, marvelling for the umpteenth time at the vigour of the Britons who had populated the land before the coming of the legions. Everywhere he had ridden throughout the island it seemed that isolated hills had been turned into strongholds, and he reflected again on the character of the men, past and present, who had built them. Tough, warlike and proud, the very qualities which made the men and women of Britain so distinctive had been turned inward by those who wished to control them for their own gain. Petty kingdoms had sprung up wherever tyrants could exchange gold and silver for spear men, while the populations sweated in the fields and lived in squalor to keep them in their finery.

  The path had risen to skirt the lower ditch, and an image of the work gangs of men long since gone to their graves labouring to clear the site of the trees ghosted into his mind. It must have taken hundreds of men a full summer or more to sweep the slopes clear of the mighty trunks, as others bent their backs breaking the earth at the summit to construct the ditches and ramparts there. For centuries shepherds had watched over their flocks, the animals cropping the slopes to ensure that the guards walking the palisade which loomed above them could spot an enemy the moment that they exited the tree line. Raising his gaze as they climbed he found that he could see all the way past the silver ribbon of the River Trenta itself from his lofty perch, deep into the foothills of The Peaks.

  The Englishman shook his head as the track steepened and approached the final turn. Should the Britons ever realise that their island contained more than enough wealth and goodness within its shores, if they ever decided to concentrate on the overwhelming traits and values which bound them together rather than allow their leaders to play on the trivialities which separated them, they would become unstoppable. There would be wealth enough for all and any invader, Roman, Engle, Saxon or others yet unknowable, would be thrown back from whence they came.

  Eofer guided his mount to one side as Horsa led the duguth through towards the dark gap in the earthwork. Seaxwine stayed at his side as they fell in behind, the riders fanning out into a protective screen as they gained the interior of the hill fort. As Eofer watched, Horsa twisted in his saddle to beckon him on, and the eorle and his charge passed through the gateway, spilling out into a vast bowl of land which had once been the interior of the fort itself. Ringed by the ancient walls the moonlight painted the interior with a silvery sheen, and Eofer’s eyes followed the course of the central roadway as he saw the Saxons for the first time, formed up in their own knot of steel a hundred yards ahead. His own duguth moved aside, their eyes darting this way and that as they searched the hilltop for any signs of treachery as Eofer led the young Saxon forward.

  A pair of warriors detached themselves from the pack up ahead, and Eofer saw Seaxwine stiffen with pride as they walked their mounts towards them. Like his own men the Saxons carried their spears reversed, and a wash of lime shining white from the face of their shields confirmed the state of parley between them.

  The surface of the fort was a pottage of darkness and light, the hummocky ground the only sign of the halls and huts which had once filled the space. The stump of a tree, a silver fang in the wan light, its significance to those long-dead lost in the mists of time, marked the centre of the old settlement, and Eofer brought his mount to a halt there and studied the Saxons as they grew nearer.

  They were, he grudgingly admitted to himself, impressive. The man who must be Seaxwulf Strang looked fully seven feet tall and powerfully built. Even without a mail byrnie the Saxon shone like a beacon as the moonlight played upon a boar-helm, arm rings of silver and gold and a large circular brooch, chip carved in the Saxon style. He wore a white shirt beneath a blood red kirtle, the sleeves and collar where they showed gleaming like ice in the moonlight, and a wide belt studded with silver wyrms, the design echoed on the surface of the great buckle which fastened his belt. Blue breeks tightened at the calf by white winingas complemented a cloak, fur edged in the same hue. His companion was only marginally less impressive in size and splendour, the Saxon’s frame bulked up by a cloak of bearskin despite the warmth of the night.

  These would be difficult men to outshine Eofer knew, despite his reputation and the fineness of his own arms and clothing, so he changed tack on the spur of the moment, steering his ship onto a new course as he sought to keep the initiative. Unbuckling his grim-helm he prised it from his head, running his hand through his hair and throwing the Saxons a welcoming smile. To his amusement he saw that his unexpected show of openness had done the trick, the pair exchanging a look which destroyed their carefully assumed air of superiority and interrupted their steely gaze. As the Saxons glowered at allowing themselves to be outwitted, they brought their horses to a halt a dozen paces away.

  Eofer hailed them: ‘My name is Eofer Wonreding, some men call me king’s bane.’ He gave a self-depreciating shrug. ‘Others, Danes mostly, know me as hall-burner, although the Jutes also have cause to remember me thus.’ He twisted in his saddle, pointing back to his hearth troop with a jerk of his chin. ‘My herebeacn, the burning hart. Hrothgar, King of Danes, had cause to rue the day he woke the English dragon.’

  Seaxwulf cast a look of indifference over Eofer’s shoulder and returned his gaze to the Engle, studiously avoiding his son who sat patiently at Horsa’s side. ‘You say that you did great things, but those things are in the past; what a man does today echoes in the halls of the gods. Now, it would seem, you are reduced to ransoming boys for silver.’ The Saxon leaned sideways in his saddle and let a silvery ball of spittle fall from his lips to show his distaste.

  Eofer responded with an exaggerated look of surprise. ‘The only mention of ransom has come from yourself Seaxwulf. Reputation, not silver or gold is the wealth which I crave.’ He gave an almost imperceptible movement of his head, fixing the Saxon leader with his eyes as Seaxwine’s horse plodded across. A flicker of surprise showed on Seaxwulf’s face, but he held his gaze on Eofer as the boy fell in behind him. ‘That is half of the debt which you owe me repaid,’ he said. ‘You killed one of my men, a man dear to me. If you have come to return my son and offer weregild for my loss, you may pay me now and be on your way.’

  ‘Unless the custom in Saxland differs from those throughout the north,’ Eofer replied, ‘brave men killed in open warfare require no compensation. In English lands a horn of mead in Valhall and a seat alongside his ancestors seem reward enough for men of spirit and valour.’

  Seaxwulf exchanged a look with the man at his side and nodded. Passing his shield across he used his free hand to unfasten the ties and draw the helm from his head. ‘So,’ he replied, leaning forward in his saddle and fixing the Englishman with a stare. ‘If you are not here for those things, tell me Engle. What do you really want?’

  11

  ‘And then you gave him back!’

  Icel laughed as he shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I knew that you would have a go for the horses at Cair Luit Coyt but I never dreamed of this. And throwing up a burh overnight, almost within sight of Cynlas Goch’s supply base. Now that,’ he said as a look of admiration came into his eyes, ‘is an act of brilliance. Bloody minded and deadly, just like your namesake Eofer, the wild boar!’

  Eofer gave the ætheling a look of surprise. ‘You knew that there were horses at the Cair?’

  Icel threw a friendly arm around his thegn, leading him away from the others. ‘Eofer,’ he said with mock indignation. ‘Do you really think that I would take myself off to visit the Lindisware without leaving people to keep an eye on things at home?’

  ‘And you knew that I would mount a raid on Cair Luit Coyt,’
Eofer protested, ‘despite the fact that English warriors were thin on the ground in Leircestre?’

  ‘I told you before I left, Eofer,’ Icel replied. ‘I have parties of men riding all over. Just because you did not see them does not mean that they were not there.’ The ætheling raised a brow at the eorle’s look of surprise. ‘Do you really think that I expected Eofer hall-burner, the terror of the north, the same man who split the king of Swedes head like a nut, to sit supping ale in The Tewdwr like a dutiful thegn? Don’t fret,’ he laughed as he revelled in the look of shock painted on the face of his underling. ‘I was not keeping an eye on you as such.’ The ætheling laid a reassuring hand on Eofer’s shoulder. ‘You know that you have my complete trust king’s bane, but I need to have eyes and ears everywhere. I am building a kingdom here,’ he said, his voice lowering once again as a thræl woman moved past them with a pitcher of ale, ‘not just defending a frontier. When you are playing for high stakes, the price for failure is usually sudden, sharp and bloody.’

  Icel reached down and filled two cups with ale from a jug. Handing one across he waited until Eofer had supped before levelling his voice. ‘You can’t save Heardred you know, however honour bound you feel. Just wishing that things were better does not necessarily make them so.’ Icel frowned. ‘Our days of downy chinned invincibility are behind us my friend, we have both been warriors long enough now to know that I speak the truth. Things happen unexpectedly, for good or ill. Mighty hosts are led south to Frisland on great adventures by spear-bold kings, only to have the gods withdraw their favours at the very moment of their greatest vulnerability.’

  He dropped his voice as Eofer sucked his teeth in thought. ‘A little bird told me that King Hygelac owed the king helm to the Allfather himself.’ It was the second time in the conversation that the ætheling had surprised the thegn with his knowledge, and Eofer snorted at Icel’s triumphant expression. Heardred had told him of this father’s pact with Woden on the beach, the day after he had rescued him and his ship’s crew from a chasing pack of avenging Franks. They had been as alone as two men could be sharing a lonely strand with two ships’ crews, and he was certain that they had been out of earshot of any of the men that morning. Not for the first time, Eofer found himself marvelling at the ability of his prince to harvest information about the most obscure and secretive subjects from all over. Icel saw his surprise and winked, the men laughing together as they both repeated the ætheling’s conclusion from earlier in the conversation.

  ‘When you are playing for high stakes, the price for failure is usually sudden, sharp and bloody.’

  The laughter trailed away, and the frown returned to Icel’s features as he drained the contents of his cup and poured a refill. ‘Unless the followers of these Swedish æthelings are more powerful than my sources suggest, his best chance of surviving the summer is to make sure that he keeps a fast ship at hand. Even if you left Leircestre today, by the time that you assembled men from Anglia and gathered the ships to take them across the sea it would be too late.’ Icel took another swig and pointed the cup at the eorle. ‘Besides, what makes you think that the Danes are going to allow an English flotilla to sail past their lands unhindered, especially after the events of the last few years. Danish settlers are beginning to move into our old lands in Engeln. Dragon ships are already sailing out of Strand and the Jutes to the north have been brought under their sway. We may have given them both a bloody nose before we left, but they are tough foes, not easy to knock out completely.’ He snorted. ‘We all spring from the same line, the Engles, Danes and Jutes. The sons of Shæf never know when they are beaten.’

  As Eofer pondered on his words, Icel drove the point home. ‘How much gold and renown would King Hrothulf shower upon the man who brought him Eofer king’s bane in chains do you think? The man who not only burned Heorot, but rescued the rightful heir to his own throne from under the noses of his huscarls and led them on a fruitless chase the length of Scania?’ Icel pulled a grin as the twinkle came back into his eye. He gave the eorle a friendly shove, and Eofer had to echo the smile despite the gravity of the conversation. ‘And what was happening in Daneland, while all this was going on?’ he went on. ‘Harrowed from coast to coast, its shiny new king left wondering where his best troops had disappeared to! Even when they returned,’ he chuckled, ‘that bloody king’s bane killed his priest and skewered his leading huscarl at holmgang!’

  They laughed again as the mood lightened, and Icel lowered himself to a bench. Eofer slid alongside as he watched the smoke curl up from the long hearth and thought on his lord’s words. The ætheling pushed a plate of cold meats his way and reached across to top up the cups. Without looking back he spoke again. ‘Have you heard from Astrid yet?’

  Eofer speared a hunk of meat with his eating knife and sniffed. ‘No, she doesn’t know anything about the situation in her homeland yet.’

  Icel cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. ‘She does. The ship from Geatland first put in at Yarnemutha. They were told that you were here at Leircestre and your friend Einar set off overland after paying his respects to my father the king. The ship picked up a pilot and travelled down to your hall at Snæpe with a message from King Heardred to his sister. She will have known all about the situation in her brother’s kingdom for a week or so.’

  Eofer’s shoulders slumped. ‘Shit!’ he hissed. ‘That is all that I need now.’

  Icel pushed a piece of meat around the table with his knife as if reluctant to continue. Finally he speared the morsel and held it aloft, turning it this way and that as he spoke. ‘Are things still…difficult between you and your wife?’

  Eofer shook his head. ‘No, not at all. She thinks that due to her newly elevated status as full sister to the king of Geats she deserves to be wed to an ealdorman at the very least, not a lowly thegn. I disagree, and the last time I looked I was the one with the cock, so no, there is nothing difficult about the situation at all.’

  ‘You know that my father would make you an ealdorman in the blink of an eye Eofer, if that was your wish. The gods know,’ Icel chuckled. ‘He has asked you enough times. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I don’t want to spend my days tallying crops and sitting on my arse,’ he replied irritably. ‘There is plenty of time for that when I am older.’

  Icel snorted again. ‘Ah, no wonder she is so miserable. Women can’t fight and win a reputation of their own, they have to snare a man who can do so on their behalf. You get your sense of worth from men retelling your deeds, she gets hers from bearing the hero’s children and surrounding herself with servants and wealth. It’s no fault of hers or your own, the world has always been that way. Why not become my ealdorman, here in Leircestre,’ the ætheling suggested. ‘Maybe that would placate you both. You would guard the marches and she could run the hall, this hall,’ he said, sweeping his arm in an arc, ‘ringed by walls of stone, the work of giants. She forgets,’ he said as a flash of mischief lit his face. ‘We have been to Geatland, there is nothing to compare there, nor will there ever be. You could be Ealdorman of Leircestre, lord of all the lands between the Trenta and Brunes Wald. I will confirm Hemming as a full thegn, the lord of the Tamesætan, and ensure that his lands are held directly from you.’ He gave Eofer a nudge. ‘It will almost be as if nothing had changed. You can still campaign together, Tamtun is well placed to raid the Hafron Valley and push down towards the southern hills once we rid ourselves of Cynlas Goch.’

  Eofer glanced across. ‘That would make me the most powerful man in the region.’

  ‘In your wife’s eyes, yes,’ Icel replied. ‘In reality you would still be my man, and I have a few more plans which I am confident will bear fruit given a bit more time. The visit to the Lindisware was a great success. Much to my surprise, the woman it appears that my father is keen to marry me off to is rather lovely in looks and charming and witty in conversation, which is fortunate for me because an alliance between ourselves and the men in Lindcylene makes perfect sense for both parti
es. Tell me, Eofer,’ the ætheling said as the eorle reached for a pork rib and began to strip the meat from it with his teeth. ‘What do you know of the Lindisware?’

  Eofer nibbled to the end of the bone and tossed the remainder to a waiting hound. As the dog loped away with its prize, the thegn gave a shrug. ‘Not very much, lord: to be frank I am not even sure if they are Britons or Engles. The furthest north that I have been on this island is…’ he cast about and gave a shrug of his shoulders, ‘not that much further than here.’

  Icel leaned in, and Eofer saw the wolfish mien which he knew so well come to the ætheling’s face. He too felt the thrill of the moment as it become clear that the talks which had just been concluded between the Engles of the east and the Lindisware had ranged far beyond a mere marriage arrangement.

  Icel’s eyes shone with barely suppressed excitement. ‘I want my leading men to know all there is to know about the wars which we have gone before us here. If we are to survive and flourish in these lands, we all need to understand the past alliances and animosities so that we can best judge who are most likely to be our friends and who will naturally feel inclined to oppose us in the present.’

  Icel nodded towards his cup. ‘It’s a bit long-winded so I will need a refill. Make sure that you pay attention though,’ he smiled. ‘I shall be asking questions afterwards.’

  The pair shared a grin as the ale flowed. Icel sank a draught, kicked back and began. ‘During the time when my great grandfather back in Engeln was overcoming the Myrgings and bringing them under English sway, the first Arthur was attempting to do the same with the British kingdom of Lind Colun, what they now call Lindisware. Offa the Great defeated his enemies, and it looked for a time as if Arthur too would succeed, but the leaders of Lind Colun hearing of the power of the English king and the completeness of his victories, sent east for help in exchange for scot as the Romans had done before them. Offa sent a kinsman, Winta, with a war troop who arrived just in time to face the full might of Arthur’s attack.’