The Scathing

by C. R. May

  Icel returned the smile. ‘You were right, Eofer. I needed to do something, rather than keep turning over problems in my mind. You are closer to the gods than I, give me some advice from old one-eye.’

  Eofer thought for a moment as they walked. ‘How about:

  ‘The foolish man lies awake all night and worries about things;

  he’s tired out when morning comes and everything is just as bad as it was.’

  Icel looked across, the surprise written on his face. ‘Woden said that?’

  ‘So they say lord.’

  ‘That’s pretty good.’

  Eofer shrugged. ‘He is the god of knowledge.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He had to sacrifice an eye to drink from Mimir’s well to gain it.’

  ‘I did always wonder.’

  Horsa and Einar Haraldson were waiting at the foot of the staircase, and Eofer gave his weorthman a friendly clap on the shoulder as he came up. ‘Einar here will guide us and I shall be riding at the head of the column with the ætheling. Once the army begins to sort itself out, take my hearth troop and fall in immediately to the rear of Icel’s gesith.’ The pair exchanged smiles at the honour being shown by the prince to their little band before turning to force a way through the throng.

  Icel spoke as he watched them go. ‘You have sent men to chase the Powys’ horsemen away?’

  Eofer raised a brow and sighed before he replied. It would seem that his friend was just not the gods-fearing type. ‘Yes, lord. Just like I have the past few days. And I have remembered to send out extra riders to confiscate any horses and asses from the settlements which line our route.’

  ‘And told the owners that the animals will be returned to them once victory is ours?’

  Eofer cleared his throat as he remembered Cynfelyn’s quip about paying off the debts at The Tewdwr. ‘Yes lord, of course. I took the liberty of adding the promise of a silver coin from your own purse for their trouble when they pitch up at Leircestre to reclaim them.’

  It was Icel’s turn to look surprised, but like Eofer before him he saw the sense in it and flashed a grin. ‘The promise of a profit to go along with the removal of a hostile army from their backyards should keep even the most devout Christian at home, particularly as he would have to walk through the night to warn Cynlas Goch that we were on our way. What do they get if we lose?’

  ‘If we lose I shan’t care, because I will drinking alongside my kinsmen in Valhall.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Icel replied gleefully. ‘You will make a fine ealdorman.’

  Spearmen were going on ahead of the pair, forcing a path through the press, and in no time they had reached the great gates which barred entry to the fortress. Their mounts were already in place and the pair exchanged a look which confirmed that they were both well aware of the importance of the moment. Eofer took the reins, leading the horse aside as he read the ætheling’s intention in his expression. As the black raven war banner of the prince was hoist aloft, Icel took two paces and hurled himself up over the rump of the beast. Clearing the horn with ease, the fully armoured warrior settled into the saddle as a roar of acclamation rose into the darkening sky. With a deft flick of his wrist, Icel wheeled the horse about, facing the mass of soldiery as his banner man hastened to his side.

  Flanked by his own raven and the white dragon of Anglia, the warrior-prince waited for the clamour to lessen before walking the horse towards them with a squeeze of his knees. As the noise fell away, a voice hailed him from deep within the multitude:

  ‘Give us a speech, Haystack!’

  Despite the solemnity of the moment, laughter echoed back from the old walls of Leircestre as the ætheling met the shout with a laugh of his own and a broad smile. At his side Eofer too beamed at the cry and his lord’s happy reaction to it. It confirmed that his earlier advice had been sound, once on the move the ætheling was back to his old self. Icel was best known among the ceorls and freedmen by the nickname on account of his straw blond hair. Unusually among the warrior class he had a habit of clipping it short, and its waywardness and resemblance to the sheaves of barley and rye which dotted the countryside at this time of year had led the people to attach the affectionate eke-name to their popular prince.

  Icel waited for the mirth to subside, sweeping the multitude with his gaze as men quietened and faces turned upwards in expectation of the words to come. ‘Countrymen…’ he began, as the crowd formed an arc and the expectant buzz fell to a whisper. ‘Brothers.’

  Eofer dropped his gaze, aware that the great attack could yet be stillborn if an assassin lurked among the throng, but Icel’s gesith were there, sharp-eyed, ready to honour the oath they had sworn to exchange their own lives for that of their prince, and he allowed himself to relax as Icel spoke.

  ‘In a short while those gates behind me will swing open and we will march through to keep our date with destiny. Fight well and we will remove the threat of Powys from these lands forever, an age-old scourge driven from the lands bordering the Trenta. You men,’ he said as his arm swept in an arc before him, ‘have been chosen by whichever god you hold close to your heart to be the spearpoint which will drive these beasts away. I know,’ he said, his voice taking on a steely edge, ‘what ravages and woes you have suffered at the hands of these men from the west this summer past. Men, women and bairns alike killed out of hand, their holy shrines desecrated, the farms and settlements hacked from the unforgiving woodland which surrounded them made cinder and ash.’

  Eofer realised what Icel was about to do, and he watched as his eyes ran across the sea of heads before him, congratulating himself as he picked out the swarthy man who would be singled out by the ætheling even before his searching gaze reached him and his hand stabbed out.

  ‘What is your name, friend?’

  The man blanched as all faces turned his way, but his companions voiced their support and he cleared his throat and replied. ‘Gwynfor, lord.’

  ‘Gwynfor?’ Icel repeated as the man shifted uncomfortably. ‘A Welshman then, and glad I am to have your spear. And what is the name of the man at your side?’

  ‘Wihta, lord.’ He reached across and ruffled the hair of a lad at his friend’s side. ‘And this young ’un is his son, Swinna. He may look sweet but his spear has already tasted Powys’ blood, back in the spring when they tried to kill his father, whore his mother and enslave his brother and sister.’

  Icel unfastened the scabbard containing the knife at his belt and tossed the blade across. As the boy snatched it from the air the ætheling spoke again. ‘Then you have done more for Mercia than your prince Swinna, though I aim to right that wrong in the coming days.’ As the boy stared wide-eyed at his gift and men crowded around to gawp, Icel continued. ‘Your friend was well named Gwynfor, Wihta the white.’ The crowd chuckled at the comment. The man was taller and slimmer than the Briton with a shock of hair paler even than the ætheling’s own, his son already a fair copy. Icel raised a brow as he continued to question the man. ‘Neighbours?’

  Gwynfor grinned happily. ‘More than neighbours, lord. Shared owners of a fine ox!’ The fyrdmen; smallholders, drovers, shepherds, men of the fields and woodlands roared their approval, and Icel waited for calm before he drove home the point he had been waiting to make.

  ‘Well, Gwynfor the black, Wihta the white and Swinna the brave, you leave this place as Briton and Engle, Christian and pagani, but when you return through those doors behind me three days’ hence you will be men of Mercia. For that is the prize I seek, why I have asked you to put aside your scythes at this busy time, take up your spears and don the trappings of war. Once we have chased this army of cutthroats back beyond the western forests, one law shall apply to all, good law which recognises only a man’s worth, not the accident of his birthplace but the right of his claim. Lend me your spears for a day and I will hand you that future and more. Fight shoulder to shoulder with me and I will make you this promise. You need never fear the depredations of a raiding army again.�
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  Icel paused as the buzz of expectation returned, and Eofer could see that his friend’s words had lit a fire within men’s hearts which would take more than a rampaging army to extinguish. An idea had been born in the shadow of Leircestre’s great walls, a dream which all free men whatever their background could share. Like all births the act would likely be long drawn out, painful and bloody, and the child would need to be nurtured as it grew in strength. But with the first great victory the seed would take root, the idea that Briton and Engle could share the island as equals, build a future together, and Eofer watched in admiration as Icel leaned forward in the saddle and threw them his most charismatic smile. ‘What do you say,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and make our dream reality?’

  Icel pursed his lips as he shared a look of concern with his thegn. ‘You can see for miles!’

  Eofer puffed out his cheeks as his eyes scanned the road and fields ahead. The wide vale which carried the River Leir northwards to its junction with the Trenta was awash with life despite the lateness of the hour. The Barley-moon cast a silver sheen over the land, turning night to day; the ancient stonework of the Fosse Way to a rod of iron before them as they led the first Mercian army towards its day of destiny. ‘At least we can see that the outriders are doing their job,’ he volunteered. ‘If anyone does try to alert Cynlas Goch to the danger, our lads will see them before they can get very far.’

  At any other time the strange herds, horses of all sizes, asses and mules which had passed them periodically on their way back to Leircestre would have been the source of hilarity within the ranks of the army but not here, not this night. Nerves which had already been stretched as taut as bowstrings were straining against the nocks as the valley widened and the terraces of the hinterland came into view. The first Engles to arrive here back in the days of Offa and Engeltheow had cleared this land, cutting back the forest to work the clayey soil with the heavy ploughs which they had brought from the unforgiving soils of Engeln. Almost a century on, the terraces were awash with settlements and outlying farms, and the army cast anxious looks in their direction as they marched north in silence.

  ‘They should all be English,’ Eofer offered helpfully. ‘I daresay that most of the people there have fathers, sons or brothers in the army.’

  ‘Still,’ Icel sniffed. ‘It would only take one man, woman or child willing to sell out his people for a fistful of silver and things could go very badly for us. Or a Briton,’ he added with a worried frown, ‘or we could be spotted by a Powys’ patrol that evades our scouts.’ Icel made to add another possible calamity to the list but Eofer cut him short.

  ‘Lord, what's wrong? You may be able to fool others but you cannot fool me. You know that we need the light of the Harvest-moon if we are to use the cover of the night to gain the hill fort. A thousand men can’t move through the land in daylight without someone noticing. The men of Powys know that the battle must come soon. Think how they must be feeling. Miles from home, all their carefully laid plans to sit out the winter and harry the lands hereabouts made ash by the actions of king’s bane and Thrush Hemming.’ His grin flashed white in the moonlight. ‘Who would you rather be at this moment? Icel Eomæring or Cynlas Goch?’

  Icel pulled a thin smile. ‘You are right.’ He craned his neck and squinted at the moon. Rime-mane had hauled the brilliant ball high above the southern hills, making spectres of the harvesters thronging the fields. Women paused at their work, stretching aching backs, their expressions a curious mask of pride and dread as their menfolk marched to war. Children, shoeless in the stubble-field moved behind the lines of reapers; scooping up armfuls of the precious stalks and binding them into sheaves, stealing excited glances as they dreamt of the day they too would carry spear and shield against hate-filled foemen.

  He was about to say more when the rumble of wheels on stone drew their heads back to the road, and the pair smiled despite their cares as they recognised who the wagon contained. Eofer leaned in. ‘Before you ask lord, I told the men to allow the ceorls to keep any animals needed for religious reasons, it being harvest time.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought that it was a risk worth taking, and I doubt that a traitor would choose an ox to sneak past our scouts. It wouldn’t do to anger the gods, not tonight of all nights.’

  Icel raised a hand, halting the onward march of the soldiery as the ox driver came to a halt before them. ‘Greetings, lords,’ the man said, whipping his leather cap from his head and clutching it to his chest. ‘A nice night for a walk.’

  Icel and Eofer exchanged a smile as a rumble of laughter came from those members of the gesith who rode within earshot. The man was obviously the worse for drink and, raising his chin to look at the passengers, Eofer could see that he was not alone. Men and women were picking themselves up from the floor of the cart where the sudden stop had proven too much for their ragged sense of balance. One figure however was standing tall, and Eofer ran his eyes over the hærfest-cwen, as her attendants checked that all was well. The figure of Gefion the harvest queen was, he had to admit, a pretty fine effort considering the drunkenness of the party. Seven feet tall, the barley figure was crowned by a ring of wildflowers and dressed in the finest of garments. A blue kirtle was worn beneath a blood red mantle, pinned at the shoulders by twin disc brooches of inlaid sliver. The double loops of a honey-amber necklace were draped across her chest, while a sheaf of barley was cradled before her above a hand scythe which gleamed white in the moonlight.

  Icel bowed to the goddess and the man beamed with pleasure. Tall and ruddy, the ox driver looked every inch the countryman, from his wild ginger mop to his dust streaked boots. He held out a jug and the pair smiled as they saw that his shovel-like hands almost enclosed the thing. ‘Cider, lord?’ he offered. ‘It’s the first scratting of the year.’ The ceorl’s belly swelled as he stifled a belch, but a loud hiccough cut the night air anyway. He puffed out his cheeks and held his nose before deciding that it was too much effort. He would live with the hiccoughs. ‘Elves are about, shooting their bolts. Sneaky buggers.’ He hiccoughed again before he recalled his offer and pulled himself up straight, raising his chin as his face broke into a soppy smile. ‘Would you care to drink to the harvest queen lords?’ he asked with studied formality. ‘It’s made from early windfalls. A bit raw still, but it’s a proper drop of jollop.’

  A warm laugh rolled from the ætheling, lifting the spirits of Eofer and the nearest gesith as they saw the cares of the day roll away from their lord. Icel leaned down from the saddle as the wagoners sang and cavorted, oblivious to the presence of their prince and his army. ‘I would be honoured,’ he said, ‘to drink to the lady.’ The man handed the container over, looking on gleefully as Icel raised the jug to the night sky and hailed the barley figure and her attendants:

  ‘Wæs hæl!’

  Despite their fuddled minds, the occupants of the wagon had been well rehearsed in their duties for the night, and the answering cry came back in a full throated roar:

  ‘Drinc hæl!’

  Icel sank a mouthful and gave a shudder, the cider maker looking on proudly as he handed it across to his thegn. Eofer took a draught before passing the vessel back to the delighted gesith behind him.

  ‘You are a bit early to gather the harvest,’ the ætheling was saying to ginger. ‘Tonight is only the first night of the Barley-moon. You have the best part of a week before the dark nights return.’

  The man shook his head. ‘I wish that were true, lord,’ he replied as he struggled against the effects of the drink to set his face in a frown. ‘A storm is coming and it could be a big ‘un, just look at yonder moon. See that halo around it? A sure sign that is. And the birds are quiet.’

  Icel laughed. ‘It’s nighttime man, of course the birds are quiet.’

  ‘Not like this,’ the ox driver replied. ‘They were roosting long before dark, that’s a sure sign. Just take a deep breath,’ he said, drawing the warm night air in through the flare of his nostrils. ‘Smell that, lord? The plants and tree
s always smell stronger before a storm, that’s why we are out here tonight, breaking our backs to gather the barley before it hits.’ He giggled as a fruity rasp carried from the revellers listening in. ‘Well, some of our folk are breaking their backs. Nearly done though,’ he said with a smile. ‘Then we can have a proper drink.’

  ‘We had all best be getting on then, friend,’ Icel replied. He slipped a silver band from his arm and tossed it across to the moon-faced ceorl. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘plant a few more apple trees in the spring and when they crop, wassail our victory.’

  Icel clicked on his mount, chuckling as he drew abreast the wagon and its charges. The driver was waiting patiently for the return of his jug as it made its way back through the army, turning to call out before they got out of earshot. ‘Don’t forget, lord. You mark my words, there will be titty clouds in the morning.’ He made cups of his hands as his ætheling looked back. ‘Great big round ones, like this. When you see them growing darker, Thunor and his goats will be close behind.’

  18

  The gesith broke free from the trees and put back their heels, thundering away as Icel and Eofer followed them out onto the moonlit hillside. The pair drew their mounts aside, watching as the army tramped from the shadows, weary smiles lighting the faces of the footsore warriors as the end of their journey hove into plain sight. Einar had been good to his word and led them here with the accuracy of a sight hound, and the thegn gave a snort of amusement as he saw the Geat scout waiting for the others to come up with the air of the dog who had got the bone.

  Eofer caught his lord staring at the sky now that they were clear of the woodland path, and he urged his horse across with a squeeze of his knee. ‘No titties yet, lord?’

  Icel snorted. ‘No, but the wind is beginning to worry the treetops.’ He pulled a face. ‘Maybe old red nose knew what he was about after all?’

  Eofer raised his eyes and saw that the ætheling was right. The sky was still clear for now, the moon as bright as a newly struck coin, hanging in the air away to the south. But a breeze had got up, not so much as to cause a remark in normal times, but the days ahead would be anything but normal, whatever the outcome. They were close now to the unfinished fort that contained Cynlas Goch and his cantrefs of household troops, so close that Eofer was sure that he could feel the tension crackling in the air as the army of Mercia gathered at the foot of the incline.