The Scathing

by C. R. May

  The men exchanged grins as they began to haul themselves into the saddle. Hemming mounted and took the reins from a companion as the men fastened helm straps and fingered gods-luck charms for the umpteenth time. ‘Right,’ he said as they pointed their mounts to the north, ‘Eadgar will lead: Hryp and Beonna are with me.’ He ran his eyes around the group a final time before they left the shelter of the glade. ‘Any last questions?’ The riders shook their heads, flashing smiles of anticipation as they prepared to carry death to the men who had tormented their people all summer long. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let us go and show these Powys that the land hereabouts is English land.’

  Hemming led the riders down into a stream bed which skirted the clearing and guided his mount northwards. On his righthand side the land banked steeply upwards; knee deep in leaf mulch from the previous autumn’s fall, the deadening effect was perfect cover for the war band as they hurried on, eager to get ahead of their foe. Half a mile on a small watercourse joined from the east, and Hemming led Hryp and Beonna along it as the others splashed away.

  The murk was closing in around them as the horses walked on, but Hemming had led men out of the burh at every opportunity as soon as the defences were secure and well manned, and he now knew the lands which were promised to him intimately.

  If a small part of the thegn felt guilt at the deaths back at the settlement, the experience gained over the years told him that they were unavoidable, that losing men was sometimes a necessary thing in war. He had learned his craft at the side of a master of warfare, the king’s bane himself: he understood warfare and was certain in his own mind that he had left nothing to chance. They had watched the columns of smoke hazing the skyline, growing nearer and nearer each day as another English settlement burned and the Britons harried his lands. But he had bided his time, waited until the numbers were evenly matched before he had harvested the defences at Tamtun of some of the more promising and experienced men to accompany him on his counter raid, Spear-Engles, the best of the best. These Britons, killers of bairns and greybeards, were already as good as dead.

  The final rise was ahead and Hemming slid from the saddle and hobbled his mount in its lee. As Hryp and Beonna mirrored his actions he retrieved the shield from its carrying place on the horse’s crupper and shouldered his spear.

  The pathway along which the enemy would be travelling was just beyond the hillock, and the trio skirted its base as the sounds of shuffling feet carried to them on the wind. The Britons and their captives were making better progress than he had anticipated, the lateness of the hour spurring them on, and he sent an invocation to the gods that the rest of his war band would be in place in time to spring the trap.

  The place he had chosen was just ahead, and the three Engles quickly checked that the way was clear before Hemming’s men left his side and doubled across to hide themselves in the shadows on the far side of the path. They reached cover just in time as the first of the British riders rounded the bend and came into view, and Hemming watched from his place of hiding as the sad party approached under the blows and curses of their captors. A quick glance across told him that the pair were in position, the silvery glint of their spearpoints just visible in the gloaming, and he followed their example, hoisting his own daroth as he waited for the column to reach them.

  They were still moving faster than he had hoped but the haste was making them careless, and the leading rider passed by without a glance to either side as the guards chivvied the captives along in his wake. The new-made thræls were abreast of him but no guards appeared alongside them, and Hemming gripped his throwing spear as he prepared to strike whether Eadgar and the others had reached the blocking position further ahead or not.

  The light was failing as the first stars showed overhead, and Hemming willed his men to appear as he wrestled with the decision.

  Suddenly the slaves shuffled to a halt as the guards at the head of the column pulled up abruptly, and Hemming prepared to attack as several guards ran past, the alarm writ large on their faces all the confirmation he needed that his men had finally arrived to bar the way forward. The slaves were craning their necks, looking ahead in an effort to make out what more the gods could possibly think to inflict on them before this day was over, and Hemming risked a peek to the south. Two guards remained at the rear, but the column was long and he was satisfied that they were too far back to intervene in the coming fight before the killing was done.

  It was time, and Hemming stepped from cover, hurling his daroth with all his might as slack jawed faces turned his way in shock and surprise. Before the dart hit he was moving. A woman’s scream cut the air but he was running freely now, the backs of the guards little more than a few feet before him as his hand moved across to draw his sword from its scabbard. Up ahead, out beyond the men who were about to fall beneath his blade he caught a scroll of smoke and flames, and he knew that the Eadgar and the others were blocking the path, brands held high as they held the attention of the enemy.

  In the moment it had taken to glance away the daroth had found its mark, and the first Briton to fall spun around with the familiar look of horror and disbelief which the Englishman had seen on the faces of those who were about to die everywhere. His sword was already in his hand and he leapt into the air, sweeping the blade in a high arc as another daroth flew in from the side to bury its point in the small of the mounted leader’s back. His next opponent began to turn as the danger to their rear became known, but Hemming’s sword was cleaving the air and a heartbeat later the blade was slicing through muscle, smashing bone as it bit deeply into the Briton’s shoulder.

  Hemming’s momentum carried him forward and he crashed into the backs of the guards, shouldering the dying man aside as his companions finally began to react to the death all around them. But the English were quicker, and before the Britons could bring their own weapons to bear Hryp and Beonna were among them, jabbing high and low with their gar, the stout shafted stabbing spears a blur of motion as they peppered the fiend.

  The men at the head of the column were down in the dust and Hemming swung around to face the pair at the rear as the sound of hoofbeats told him that the others were riding down to help finish the job. The light was failing fast, but he caught the flash of movement as the last of the Britons saw the fight was over and plunged into the greenwood in a desperate effort to save their skins.

  The riders came up as the last traces of life were being extinguished from the remaining Powys’, and Hemming turned to the captives as the horsemen urged their mounts forward and shouldered their way into the tree line in pursuit of the two escapers. ‘Who leads here? Who is the headman?’

  A ceorl stepped forward, the light of deliverance shining from his features as he realised that his family may yet have a future together despite the horrors of the day. The man bobbed his head and tried to say his thanks, but emotion got the better of him and all that came was a half stifled sob. Hemming placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing in a breath as the madness of battle began to drain from him. ‘Do you have a place to go,’ he asked gently. ‘You cannot go back to your homes until the Powys’ have been chased from our land.’

  The headman shook his head sadly. ‘No, lord. All that we have, all that we have worked for has been taken from us in a day.’

  Hemming pursed his lips. ‘I understand, but you cannot return. If the Powys’ discover what has happened here they may well return with more spears. We are growing stronger by the day and we will win this war, but for now if you have no place else to go which offers a degree of safety you must go to Leircestre.’ The man still looked hesitant, bemused by the horror of the last hours, and Hemming cast a look at those still standing in line to his rear as he waited for the man to gather his wits. His men were moving among them, removing the pins which held their slave collars in place and sharing the contents of their drinking skins.

  Above them the sky was darkening quickly, the stars which had seemed little more than a haze of light at the start
of the attack now sword-blade bright. He had to get moving if he was to regain the safety of Tamtun burh this night. They had already been away for two full days as they hunted the small bands of Britons who were creating mayhem throughout the land. If he was to be thegn to these folk it was his duty to protect them in time of war and he was doing his best. But however hard he strived on their behalf the issue would be decided elsewhere, and soon; he would have to hope that victory in the east would spell the final death for Powys’ ambitions in the lands around Tamtun. Eofer had told him of their plans, that night as they shared mead on the rampart and his men had prepared Anna’s pyre. Win the battle at Hreopedun and they would chase the enemy out of Cair Luit Coyt and back beyond the forest of Canoc.

  He led the ceorl aside, away from the ears of others as he began to lose patience. The man was clearly distressed at the events of the day, but he would have to grow a thicker skin if he was to survive and prosper on the frontier. ‘Look,’ he said, as he pinned the ceorl with a look. ‘This is not a request. You will lead these people to Leircestre or I will see to it that your village will be under the authority of a new head man. Take this,’ he said, fishing a handful of silver coins from the purse which hung at his waist. ‘Leircestre is overcrowded with folk fleeing the Powys’ at the moment but this will at least get you and your people food, even if you have to sleep in the open. It’s not so bad,’ he added as he attempted to soften his orders with a smile of reassurance, ‘warriors do it all the time, and not always in weather as balmy as this.’

  The sound of returning horses drew his eyes back to the woodland, and whoops of joy came from the ceorls at the sight of the bloody spear points as they were held aloft in triumph. Hemming turned back to the headman. ‘That’s the last of them, get yourself moving. I can’t spare any spearmen to escort you, but feel free to take what weapons you need from the dead men here. Go back to your village, bury any valuables which they may have missed and take as much food as you will need. Travel the back roads as well as you are able and you should reach safety within four or five days.’

  The horsemen sat at the edge of the woodland and scanned the clearing. Ahead of them the track which led to the burh showed grey in the moonlight and Hemming sucked his teeth in thought. Hryp was at his side, and the warrior whispered a question as nervous men swept the meadow with their gaze. ‘Let me and Beonna ride at your flanks lord. If an arrow does come from the gloom it will keep you safe.’

  Hemming snorted softly and turned aside to murmur a remark of his own. ‘Do you hear that Beonna? Hryp has volunteered you to take an arrow on my behalf.’

  ‘That’s because he owes me silver, lord,’ the reply came from the darkness. ‘Never place your trust in a man who owns his own dice!’

  Hemming raised his shield and glanced about him as the men chuckled softly. It was only a short ride to the gatehouse but they would be in full view the whole way. Suddenly the effort they had made clearing away the trees and bushes from the land surrounding the hill fort seemed like it may have been a mistake. He shook his head as he thought back on the example set by his own lord. Eofer always led from the front, whatever the danger: he would do no less.

  He raised his voice so that all could hear. ‘We will go straight in. I shall ride at the head of the column and we should be inside before any bowmen can draw a lead on us. If I am wrong,’ he shrugged and threw them all a smile, ‘if nothing else I have taught you how to build a fine pyre over the last few months!’

  A last glance about him and Hemming kicked back his heels, hunkering down behind his shield as the horse left the safety of the trees and made for Tamtun. Listening hard he strained to make out the telltale whicker which would tell him that arrows were cutting the air about him but he heard none, and he hoped that they would come through unscathed.

  The gates rose before him, and Hemming drew rein as a demand that they identify themselves came from the wall above. He cupped a hand to his mouth and made the reply.

  ‘Heorot!’

  The doors were swinging inward almost before the word was out, and Hemming urged his horse forward to lead his men into the courtyard before they came together again. Slipping from his saddle he exchanged a tired smile with the guard as his men dismounted around him. They had been out for days deep within the lands threatened by their foemen and not lost a man. It was, Hemming knew, the type of thing which would build his reputation and attract good spearmen to his hearth.

  ‘Welcome home, lord,’ the guard was saying as a groom came across to lead his horse away. But the tone betrayed that there was more to follow, and Hemming sighed in his weariness and raised a brow as he waited for the axe to fall.

  ‘One of the patrols came in today, lord,’ the guard continued apologetically as he recognised the look. ‘They are with Sigmund, in the hall.’

  17

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ the ætheling said with a frown. ‘Maybe if we asked everyone to breathe out at the same time we could squeeze a few more in?’

  Eofer chuckled under his breath as the steward went back to his duty, calling out his orders as his underlings scurried away to do his bidding. With a soft whistle and a shake of the head, the thegn looked out across the packed space of the old forum. Horses and men jostled each other in a chaotic scrum, whirling about like freshly stirred soup as the stewards attempted to create order from chaos. Icel came across and the pair shared a look, the ætheling casting his cares aside to snort at the amusement he saw reflected there. ‘This should be your responsibility ealdorman. Maybe if Thrush Hemming would stop sending every waif and stray to us here with a purse full of silver we could find a place to put everyone. Why do you think that I was so keen to get shot of the place?’

  ‘I am not ealdorman yet, lord,’ Eofer replied. ‘And Thrush is doing a fine job out west. Harrying, tying down men who could otherwise be here harrowing the heartlands.’

  ‘Don’t be so defensive Eofer,’ Icel snapped back. ‘Hemming is big enough to fight his own battles. If I were not sure of that fact he would still be your weorthman.’ It was about as close to a rebuke that the eorle had ever received from his lord and it confirmed his fears that the constant strain was taking its toll on the man. The prince pulled a wry smile as he realised the same. He made a fist and lightly punched Eofer on the chest by way of apology. ‘Hemming is doing well,’ he sighed as he returned his gaze to the multitude below. ‘I just wish that he would send a few folk down to Grantebrycge for a change! Still,’ he said as he forced his natural sense of optimism back to the surface, ‘I shan’t fret, they will be gone within the week and I shall be leading the first settlers across the Trenta in the spring. You heard the words of the guda, Woden wills it. Old one-eye himself is spoiling for the fight.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Eofer replied. ‘Woden’s presence doesn’t ensure that we will have the victory. Whatever the priests say the old goat does enjoy chaos, and an English defeat will certainly hand him that.’

  ‘We sacrificed a white bull, a fine war stallion and a high-born Briton to the Allfather,’ Icel said. ‘If that’s not good enough for him, he can kiss my arse.’

  Eofer shook his head and sighed. The ætheling had never been the most reverent of men where the gods were concerned; he hoped that his lord’s easygoing attitude towards them amused Woden, Thunor and Tiw as much as it did the ætheling himself or a kiss would be the last thing they could expect. He had already been bitten on the arse once that year and it was not something which he planned to experience again in a hurry.

  Despite his cares and worries, Icel’s eyes sparkled with pride as he scanned the open space below. Men had been arriving for the best part of a week in response to his summons, and now the old walls of the town were full to near bursting point as they left the taverns and buildings. Bidding their farewells to wives and whores alike, the men were lifting their chins as they attempted to pick out the war banners of their own leader from the mass of boars, wolves and bears, crowding forward towards the northe
rn gate as the shadows lengthened around them.

  ‘Come on, lord,’ Eofer said, plucking at Icel’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get down there. Fighting men were never meant to live in towns. Once the army is on the move you will feel better.’

  Eofer cast a look towards the west as the pair paced the steps which led down from the walkway, high on the walls of Leircestre burh. The sun was all but spent for the day, the treetops rimmed with gold as the late summer night came upon them.

  ‘Are you sure that your man will be able to find this place? It will be as black as pitch once we enter the forest, Barley-moon or not,’ Icel was asking.

  Eofer cast a glance to the east. Rime-mane the sky horse was already pulling the great white orb into the heavens, the huge bowl casting its steely glow across the hilltops as Icel chattered on. The eorle’s mind drifted away as he looked, back across the sea to the wolds of his birth land. The harvests had been even better in Anglia and he was confident that Gefion, the giver, had accompanied her worshippers despite the distance involved. Halig monaþ, holy-month, was upon them, and it spoke volumes for the loyalty of the populace to the ætheling that men had left the land at such a time to fight for their lord at the very moment that every pair of hands were needed to gather the crops. His mind came back, and he flushed as he saw the questioning look on Icel’s face as he awaited the answer to his question. ‘Einar is a Geatish scout lord,’ he offered in reply, ‘he could smell his way there if needs be.’

  The ætheling laughed for the first time that day, and Eofer returned a smile of his own. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘We are only a dozen paces into our journey and your cares are sluicing away.’