by C. R. May
Crawa was standing over the body of his brother, Hræfen the first to fall, and he felt pride despite it all as Horsa, true to the oath he had sworn in a distant mithraeum, gathered Osbeorn, Octa, Finn and Sæward, Eofer‘s doughty men, to him. The leading Geats wavered as a thunderous English roar resounded around the little courtyard, taking a backwards step as the boar-snout came together in a crash of shields. Hurling themselves forward the fame-bright war troop cut a bloody swathe as they drove across to make their last stand around the fallen body of their lord.
Astrid lay at his side, and a whimper escaped her lips as the furore which had enveloped them all dragged her back from her own private hell. Her breathing was shallow, the blood at her mouth a scarlet spume as she fought for breath, and Eofer knew that Beornwulf’s spear thrust had pierced a lung. He had seen it many times, they all had: his wife was slowly drowning in her own blood.
Astrid’s eyes had clouded once again as her mind retreated into a world of pain, alone with her fears as all the children of Ash and Elm must be when the norns whet their shears and fix them with their steely gaze.
He reached across, brushing back her hair as he turned his face to hers. The last flicker of life which followed his touch caused the woman to bark up blood, and Eofer closed his eyes in grief as he felt the hotness spatter his face. When he opened them again he was surprised to find that her eyes had cleared.
‘So,’ she whispered, her voice a tortured rasp. ‘Now you have killed me.’
Eofer’s own breathing grew shallow, and he blinked in surprise at the vague realisation that the pain which had him pinned was ebbing away. For a moment Astrid’s face filled his vision, but something else swam into view as the shadows began to gather and his eyesight lost its sharpness. Doors grinding open beneath a roof of golden shields: half-remembered faces look up from their cups and break into smiles.
‘No Astrid,’ he said. ‘You killed us all.’
26
‘I am bouncing all over the place on the back of this bloody ass, my helm has fallen over my eyes and I can’t even see where we are going. I try to say something and all that I can get out is I,I,I...because every time I try to say more the bloody thing’s back comes up to smack me into the air, and Eofer says. “We haven't got time for singing you arse, we are in the shit!”’
The men in the shelter laughed as Hemming bent his back to scoop a refill from the barrel. The mead was good, there was plenty of it, and he took a deep draught from the horn as he pushed back against the side strakes of the little Skua and glanced away to the east. A thin band of grey showed on the horizon, dull, shot through with darker strands like the edge of a newly hammered blade and he sighed. ‘It looks as if the dawn is almost upon us: our time here is nearly spent.’ As if in confirmation the baleful wail of a war horn drifted across to them from the encampment, and the men in the grave exchanged a look and hauled themselves to their feet.
Icel knelt and laid a hand upon the bearskin which covered the body of his man, flashing a smile as he worked a ring from his finger. ‘Here old friend,’ he said, ‘a treasure fit for an eorle. Show this to your ancestors; be sure to tell them that it is a gift from an ætheling to a hero.’ Icel lingered a moment as he ran his eyes across the face of his greatest warlord, the familiar features now sallow and drawn in death.
Two full months had passed since word had reached the king in Theodford of the fate of Eofer and his hearth troop. Drawn by the smear of smoke, the first ceorls to discover the scene of carnage had carried the bodies of their thegn and his warriors to the moot hall. As men mounted a watch over the noble remains, the hundred had echoed to the wail of war horns as fyrdmen snatched up spear and shield and rushed to the muster. The sight of the flames on the skyline had drawn the local thegn and his war band from across the river, but the ships had gone from their berth before the Wulfings could gather to give battle, and although they gave chase as best they could the raiders were already hull down on the horizon by the time they drew rein on the seashore. It was the first time that Engle and Wulfing had united to face a common threat, and although the killers had escaped it bode well for the future.
Nobody seemed to know who had done the killings, although the Danes were suspected and they would have good reason. The body of little Ælfgar had been discovered alongside that of his thyften, a single sword stroke to the back of the lad’s head had sent him to Hel’s cold hall. His mother Astrid had simply disappeared, some thought back to Geatland but news had come of that nation’s fall and it seemed unlikely.
Coelwulf stepped forward as the ætheling rose to go. Eofer’s neighbour from back in Engeln laid a small vessel of blue glass into the crook of his old friend’s arm, and then it was Hemming’s turn to say his parting words. As Eofer’s first weorthman walked the deck planks of the little scegth he thought back on past voyages they had taken together. The sea spray would never again burst over its bows nor the wind sing in its rigging: manhandled the half mile from the little River Aldu, up onto the ridge near the charred remains of his hall, the Skua would soon be conveying Eofer’s soul to a far loftier place. Hemming fished inside the purse which hung from his belt and leaned in. ‘Do you remember this, lord?’ he said. ‘It’s the comb which we fought over as lads.’ He reached forward and gently teased the hairs of Eofer’s beard before placing the comb with the other things. ‘Take it with you,’ he whispered as he choked down the tears. ‘An eorle should look his best when he pitches up at Woden’s hall. And save me a place,’ he added sadly. ‘We both met Snarly yowl out there on the Sandlings, and I have no family to die before me.’
Wulf was the last, as was right. Eofer’s brother stepped forward and bent low. He spoke at length, and although the words were too softly formed to carry, the others knew what they would be. Kinsmen needed avenging, another, Eofer’s son Weohstan was missing. The king had provided a ship and crew, given his gesith leave and a war band to accompany him. Their bow would be breasting the waves before the first snows whitened the land. Wulf finished saying his piece, pulling the bearskin up to cover his brother’s face before joining them at the stern.
Hemming took a last look at the things which would accompany his lord into the next world as they lingered, loathe to leave the presence of the man they had loved in life.
Eofer himself lay amidships. At the head of the burial chamber the eorle’s shield rested against the far wall, the nicks and slashes in the leather facing telling the tale of their last fight together. A handful of spears lay alongside Gleaming: the stout gar which had stabbed out across shield rims into the faces of hated foemen the length and breadth of the north and a few daroth, the slender darts which would be thrown to pierce the heads and chests of battle dodgers in the rear. At his side his grim helm, a folded mail shirt, drinking horns, a lyre: gaming pieces. At his feet two wolfhounds and his favourite gyrfalcon, a gift from Astrid’s father Hygelac, King of Geats; closer still to the mourners the war horse of Cynlas Goch himself. The stallion had been sacrificed at dusk the night before, the limbs and head removed and carefully arranged so that they could cram the great body inside the dart like hull of the scegth.
A group were hovering at a respectful distance, their eyes cast downward as they leaned on their tools, dun coloured clothing and close-cropped hair marking their lowly status. Icel raised his chin, looking out beyond the thræls at the grey line which was widening by the moment. Overhead the stars were paling, with just the brilliance of the morning star left to outshine the returning sun. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It’s time.’
There was still a final act for them to perform before the orb edged the earth’s rim, and they crossed to their horses as the slaves crept across to heap soil over the tomb. The stallions waited at the road, each mount decked out in its war splendour, and the warriors donned their helms and took up their spears as they hauled themselves into the saddle.
As flaming brands were handed to each rider, a woman’s voice floated across the heath, a mournful keening as sh
e bemoaned the loss of an eorle, a hero of his people. Wailing, she tore at her clothes and hair, rubbed grey ash into the wounds in grief. Beyond her, prow on to the bank, snake ships rode at anchor, Hwælspere: Hildstapa: Grægwulf, as their scipthegns mourned the loss of a friend.
Hemming saw that the leaders were almost upon them and his heart sang with pride that such men could gather to honour his lord. Eomær King of the Engles: Wehha lord of Wulfings: Cueldgils son of Creoda: Cynric ap Cerdic of the folk who now called themselves the Westseaxna: Hrothmund Hrothgarson, Prince of Danes.
Icel raised the brand and put back his heels as a flicker of light showed to the east. Chanting dirges of loss he led the riders around the Howe under a wolf grey sky:
rídend swefað,
hæleð in hoðman…
the rider sleeps,
the hero in his grave…
A heartbeat later they were all steering their horses around the barrow, the dawn resounding to the thunder of hoofbeats as the warriors shook their spears at the heavens beneath a dragon tail of smoke. The laments drifted across the heath, came to the ears of the leaders there, and King Eomær’s chest swelled with pride as the deeds of his greatest thegn were made known to all.
Soon the thing was done, torches tossed aside as Shining Mane dragged the sun back into the sky. Kings and princes were crossing the moor, showing the riders honour as they served those closest to the eorle southern wine, and Hemming smiled a greeting as Cynric approached. Icel was at Hemming’s side, an ætheling dressed for war, and the Engles dipped their head in thanks as gold chased goblets were passed around.
The sun lay upon the horizon now, the pale ball gilding the crests of distant waves as the day began. Gulls were in the sky, their raw piercing cries matching the mood, and Hemming let out a mournful sigh as the vessels came together. ‘Who would have thought that it would end like this?’
The æthelings, Engle and Seaxna shared a look, and Hemming’s mouth curled into a smile as Icel replied for them both. ‘No, old friend, this is not the end. This is just the beginning.’
Afterword
‘Between the end of Roman government in Britain and the emergence of the earliest English kingdoms there stretches a long period of which the history cannot be written. The men who played their parts in this obscurity are forgotten, or are little more than names with which the imagination of later centuries has dealt with at will.’
Those are not my words but the opening lines of the very first chapter of Anglo-Saxon England, the second book in The Oxford History of England series, Sir Frank Stenton’s classic overview of the age, and I had to smile as I read them again whilst researching for this book. The first half of the sixth century in Britain is the very darkest period of the so-called ‘Dark Ages’. Even the scribes who scratched the entries onto the vellum of the Anglo-Saxon chronicle are silent about events which occurred during what was even to them ancient history. Largely the product of the later West Saxon kingdom, little of historical note is mentioned outside that area in the chronicle for the entire sixth century save for the odd report that the kingship of Northumbria had changed hands.
Any ‘history’ for the lands which would constitute the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia that we can piece together at this distance in time centres mostly around a people known as the Iclingas, the people of Icel. Certainly the later kings lists which began to be recorded in the seventh century refer to this shadowy character as the founder of the dynasty and mention that he was the son of Eomær, the last king to rule continental Engeln. Unfortunately the routes which gave relatively easy access to the area at this time, the rivers Trent, Nene and Welland among others, also provided the same for the people who later moved into their old lands in Engeln, the Danes. It is probably safe to assume that every written record for the early Mercian kingdom was destroyed along with the monasteries which housed them in the later viking wars of the ninth and tenth centuries.
That the heartland of the later kingdom was in the area around the headwaters of the Trent Valley is widely accepted. There is a heavy concentration of early style place names in the area around Tamworth, Repton and Lichfield based on personal names, but also those relating to heathendom, always a reliable sign of pre seventh century settlement in England. Wednesbury (Woden’s burh): Tysoe (Tiw’s hoh, or hill spur) was named after an ancient red horse which was carved into the hillside there and is thought to have been dedicated to the war god: Weeford (holy ford), very close to Cair Luit Coyt itself are only a few examples. In the spirit of a picture being worth a thousand words, I have tried to illustrate the extent of the forests and marshlands which drove the early settlers so far inland and the rivers along which they travelled on the map at the front of this book.
Modern studies are also reaching the conclusion that the early English kingdoms were far more Anglo-British than traditionally thought. In the first book in the series, Fire & Steel, I had Eofer aiding Cerdic and Cynric to regain the lands in what was to become Wessex in a British civil war. Cerdic, Cynric and indeed the majority of their sixth century descendants had thoroughly British names so it made sense to do so. Mercia often allied itself with British kingdoms, especially Gwynedd, in the later centuries against their common Anglian enemy in Northumbria and it would be far from surprising if this kingdom was also in fact a mix of British and English inhabitants ruled by the old Anglian elite.
Lindsey is similar in many ways. The people who are here called the Lindisware, later the Kingdom of Lindsey, perhaps best illustrate the racial fusion hinted at in Wessex and Mercia. Its location, on a ridge of land surrounded by marsh, rivers and sea, lent it a special isolation which was ideal for takeover by invading people. The Angles of the fifth century seem to have arrived first as laeti, armed war bands, in the employ of the post Roman territory of Cair Lind Colum. That they later took over by whatever means is entirely plausible, it would certainly mirror developments on continental Europe at the same time. Perhaps the crisis did come as a result of the attacks by an Arthur?
The problem of Arthur’s existence and his battle list has kept the printing presses in business for decades. I chose to overcome the arguments for and against various historical figures by making the name Arthur, Celtic Artos-Viros, Bear-Man, a title rather than the name of an individual. Straightaway the problems of time and distance were overcome. Suddenly it made no difference whether Arthur lived in the south-west, English midlands or even present day Scotland. Time and location restraints disappeared, and I could concentrate on the storyline. The first five of the twelve battles of Arthur which were listed in the eighth century History of the Britons by the Welsh historian Nennius are usually linked to the area of present day Lincolnshire, and it is entirely possible that any overlord uniting the British kingdoms against barbarian incursions would choose to repeatedly attack the hybrid state developing there.
Another Welsh source, Gildas, is one of the most famous sources for our period. His work, On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain, is thought to have been written in the 540’s so it should have been an important contemporary account at a time when the heathen Angles and Saxons were still awaiting conversion to Christianity and the literacy which accompanied it. Unfortunately Gildas does have an unfortunate tendency to rant rather than inform. The aim of his work seems to have been to castigate the British leaders of his time who are, through their own lasciviousness and debauchery, bringing down the wrath of God on their people in the form of pagan barbarian invasions. That the man had a real hatred of the Germanic incomers leaps from just about every page, and as a later day Englishman I enjoyed introducing him to my tale and having Eofer give him good reason.
Cynlas Goch, the villain in our tale, may very well be the Cuneglasus denounced by Gildas as one of the Five Warlords of his day. In fact he goes so far as to accuse him of not only being ‘one who raises war against men, indeed against his own countrymen, as well as against God,’ but in another passage denounces him as ‘You bear, you rider and ruler of many, and gui
der of the chariot which is the receptacle of the bear.’ Arthur of course was the Bear Man, and this war ‘against his own countrymen’ ties in nicely to our tale. Sawyl Penuchel, Sawyl the Arrogant, King of The Peaks was also a contemporary, and if little more is known about him perhaps his title might be another good indication of the type of men who were able to gain power as the province of Britannia began to fragment in the Roman twilight.
A further problem which the later viking invasions and raids illustrate is the need for speed and mobility. On land this essentially meant the availability of horses for the attacking force up until late in the twentieth century. Even Hitler’s invasion of Soviet Russia in the second world war relied upon horsepower more than the offensive power of the panzer divisions. Eighty percent of the supply echelon, that’s over one million horses on any given day, were used by the German Army in that great conflict, so the pressing need for horses by Icel and his Engels would have been a crucial requirement to any campaign at this time.
