by C. R. May
Hrothmund was halfway across, clinging on tightly as the foot-rope sagged and lowered him knee deep into the torrent. There were still a good dozen or so waiting to cross, and Eofer cast an anxious look back the way they had come. Wulfhere could well be fighting for his life at this very moment; they had to speed up the crossing if he was to have any chance of reaching safety.
Eadward had read his thoughts, and the scipthegn held his gaze as he turned back. ‘Wulfhere knew that he would be feasting in Valhall before sunset when he stepped forward. We can’t go any faster Eofer,’ he said sadly. ‘The rope will never take the weight of more than two men at any one time. With the water level this high, even that many would be up to their chests if we tried it.’
A harsh cawing carried across from the treetops, and the pair exchanged a look as a cloud of rooks rose into the darkening sky. Eadward was the first to speak. ‘Wulfhere has already travelled onwards. Call your man back, Eofer. We need to get them all across somehow…now!’
Eofer waved his spear frantically and called the youth back as Eadward began to push and pull the remaining warriors into two groups. By the time that Grimwulf had raced back across the meadow the remaining Englishmen had been divided up, and Eadward drew his seax and began to saw at the lower rope. ‘The first group,’ he cried as the strands began to fray and tease apart. ‘Wade into the water and take a firm grip.’
Eofer could see what his friend intended and, cupping his hands to his mouth, cried out above the crash of onrushing water. ‘Keep in your groups when you reach the far bank, half for each rope. Pull us across when we are ready.’
The cable was proving tough to cut through, even for Eadward’s razor-sharp stabbing sword, and Eofer drew his own as the metallic clatter of mail carried to them from the shadow of the wood. As he began to saw frantically at the higher line the lower finally gave way and Eadward was beside him in an instant. Together the thegns worked to cut the rope as the duguth remaining on the bank made to form a shield wall around them. Eofer could see that the first group were being hauled across the seething waters and he snapped out an order to the hearth men as the rope began to part. ‘I won’t need you there lads, this is almost through. All you will do is slow us up. Shoulder your shields and start pulling yourself across as soon as this parts!’
A glance to the South, and the tree line spewed forth a tide of Danes who bayed like hounds at the sight of their quarry and tore across the grass towards them. Eofer pulled the rope taut and worked his seax at the final strand as the crash of running men filled the air. The duguth were back at the bank, but hesitating as the Danes tore across the meadow towards their thegns. Eofer frantically snapped out an order. ‘I will get this! Get into the water, I am right behind you!’
Eadward leapt aside as the final fibres parted and the rope, the tension released, whipped away. A spear flashed past Eofer’s face followed by another, and the eorle turned to face his foe as Eadward shouldered his shield and splashed after the men. The enemy were upon him and Eofer dropped his seax, snatching up his gar with his left hand as he reached across his body and drew Gleaming with his right. A Dane, his features twisted by a snarl of hatred, jabbed at him with a heavy spear but Eofer dodged inside the lunge and speared the man in the thigh. As the Dane fell, Eofer risked a look up and gasped. The plain was a sea of hate-filled faces, and the eorle knew with certainty that his wyrd was upon him. To seek to join the others now would only leave his back a mishmash of bloody wounds and he resolved that he would go to his ancestors unsullied by such a shameful thing. As he backed against the post a voice cried out above the din:
‘I want him alive!’
Several Danes reacted to the order, overlapping their linden boards with a clatter, shuffling carefully towards him with stone-hard eyes glowering between helm and shield rim.
Eofer struck out with sword and spear but the space to move was diminishing by the moment as the Danes crowded in, and very soon he was hemmed in from all sides and pressed hard against the great oak beam. A sea of gleeful faces swam before him until they suddenly hardened into one.
‘Hello hall burner,’ a voice rasped. ‘We meet again.’
A heartbeat later his head shot to the side, exploding with pain as silver flashed and the dome of a sword pommel crashed into the side of his skull. As white light sparked in his vision Eofer fell to the floor, his eyes losing their focus as he began to slip into unconsciousness. Darkness crowded in as the noise receded, and he watched as if from afar as the tail-end of rope slipped, snake-like, over the lip of the bank and disappeared from view.
7
The thegn threw his arm around Hemming and tugged the struggling duguth towards the bank. A spear sliced into the water beside him and then another as more bodies tumbled into the river about them, the Engles throwing their shields around the pair and shepherding them towards safety. As the missiles continued to pepper the water around them, the ship thegn twisted a knot of Hemming’s cloak into a ball and hauled him backwards. ‘Thrush, come on!’ he yelled desperately as the man fought against him. ‘There is nothing that we can do.’
Hemming stared at the far bank, his face contorted by a powerful mix of anger, helplessness and shame and, as his body slammed against the muddy riverbank, Eadward watched with relief as the madness began to drain from the big man. He spoke again, seizing the opportunity before the rage could build again. ‘Thrush,’ he repeated gently but firmly, ‘there is nothing that we can do.’
Thrush Hemming’s shoulders sagged wearily as he watched the enemy close about his lord with dismay. Eofer was fighting hard, holding his own against the mass of spears and swords until a cry cut the air and the Danes moved in with their shields, hemming him in like a hog on market day. A troll-Dane, huge and menacing in mail and boar helm closed in for the kill, and a horrified moan escaped the mouths of the watching Engles as the warrior’s sword flashed and the eorle slipped from view.
As their fiend cheered and stabbed the air in triumph another spear arced in towards them, but Octa swept his big shield across and knocked it aside with a look of distain as Hemming’s animal-like howl tore the air. Suddenly the big man shook himself free and clambered the bank, tearing across the grassy water meadow towards the place where the first of those to cross the torrent had gathered. Eadward and Osbeorn shared a look as they both realised the duguth’s destination, and the thegn desperately snapped out an order. ‘Get after him! Don’t let any harm come to the Dane, we still need him.’
Osbeorn scrambled onto the bank and tore off after his leader as the other men in the water regained the land, throwing their shields together as they backed away towards the safety of the tree line. Ahead of him he could see the others begin to understand what was about to happen, and he recognised the confusion in their movements as Hemming thundered towards them.
Hrothmund, distracted by the pulsing mass of those who so clearly wanted him dead only a hundred yards away, saw the more immediate danger too late as Hemming closed upon him with a roar. Cuthbert and Adda, Eadward’s remaining duguth closed protectively around the Danish prince, but a heartbeat later Hemming crashed through them, bowling them aside before throwing his hand around the throat of the young Dane and slamming him back against the bole of a tree. The breath rasped from the Dane in a violent gasp as the Engle drew his short stabbing seax and raised the wicked blade to Hrothmund’s throat.
‘I am lordless because of you, you worthless piece of shit,’ he spat, their faces almost touching as the Englishman trembled with rage. ‘Give me one good reason why I don’t just spit you now, like the worthless pig that you are.’
Hrothmund’s mouth gaped, and the colour drained from his face as his mind desperately scrambled to form a reply which would stay the madman’s blade.
Another voice came as the Dane swallowed loudly, a voice which was clearly doing its best to remain calm and reasoned as violence crackled in the air. ‘Thrush,’ it said, ‘leave him.’
Hemming seemed not to have h
eard, and the young Dane took a risk, stealing a look towards his hoped-for saviour as his feet hung suspended above the earth. The look was enough, and the faintest spark of recognition cut through Hemming’s rage that there was another standing at his side. The voice spoke again. ‘Thrush, if you kill this bastard you will be doing the Danes’ work for them. Eofer would have given his life for nothing.’
The mention of his lord’s name did the trick, and Hemming threw out a sidelong glance. Osbeorn gave a wink and laid the palm of his hand lightly on his hearth companion’s forearm. ‘Let it go,’ he said as he fixed him with a stare. ‘Me, Octa, and the youth are looking to get out of this. You are in charge now; time to start acting like it, mate.’
The sight and sound of his friend drained the anger from the big man, and Hemming shoved the Dane aside with a sneer as he slammed his seax into its scabbard. Adda and Cuthbert hustled Hrothmund away as Eadward and Octa finally reached the shelter of the trees.
The thegn cast a quick look at the young Dane and, satisfied that he was still in one piece, indicated that Eofer’s weorthman step aside from the throng with a jerk of his head. The two headmen turned to face across the clearing as the Danish host lined the far bank, beating ash shaft on shields as they cried their challenges. The course of the river had taken a wide meander to the South at the point where the locals had chosen to construct the crossing point, eating into the southern water meadow but leaving the northern floodplain a wide grassy swatch of green. With no evidence that the Danes had any bowmen among their number, both men knew that they were as safe as they had been since they had been forced to ditch the ship earlier in the day. Eadward watched as Danes waded into the current, bracing themselves and linking arms as they attempted to force a crossing. He knew that they would not succeed there, he had crossed the swiftly flowing watercourse and knew the waters to be far too deep to ford. Other Danes were already jogging away upstream and down as their leader sought another crossing place from which to renew the chase.
Like fighting men everywhere, the Englishmen of the combined war bands slumped to the ground, grabbing what they knew would be the briefest chance for rest. The day had been a gruelling test of their endurance, more so for the men of Eofer’s raiding party, but they would have to move on quickly if they wanted to live. The shadows were lengthening as the sun began to settle in the West, its golden light turning the river to bronze as the body of the first Dane to drown at the crossing attempt spun lazily into view on its way down to the sea.
Eadward gave his companion a gentle shove. ‘Are you back with us?’ he asked with a weary smile. ‘I could do with a little help.’
Hemming stood, staring across at the Danish horde, his chest rising and falling like bellows as he sought to control his emotions. Eadward could see that the duguth’s eyes were rimmed red and watery, and he looked away to spare the big man’s shame as he spoke of his own losses that day. ‘I knew Wulfhere and Hnæf for a score years or more. To lose them both in a day…’ He shook his head sadly as the sound of snoring carried to them from the heap of youth, strewn about the floor like clothing on wash day. ‘Hnæf saved our lives more times than I like to think, guiding us through Thunor-storms and arrow-storms that left other ships flotsam. Wulfhere is…was,’ he corrected himself, ‘hand-fasted to my sister. They have a lad, Eadgar and a lass Editha. Both good, strong children, who climb all over their father like he is a great oak tree when he returns to them with armfuls of gifts and a grin as wide and ugly as a horse’s arse. What shall I tell them?’ he asked in a voice quivering with emotion. ‘That I abandoned their father to fight a Danish ship army alone, while I ran off with one of their princes?’ He let out a sigh and shouldered his shield. ‘Come on,’ he said, plucking at Hemming’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get them all up and moving while there is still enough light to see by.’
Octa spooned another dollop of the glutinous mixture, sighing with pleasure as it spread warmth and feeling throughout his body. He had one more scoop from the pot before his share had been taken and he searched the surface of the broth to see if he could spy out an island of meat. A solid peak was breaking the surface on the far side and his arm reached out as he made his play, only for another spoon to dart in and snatch it away.
‘Gotcha!’
He raised his eyes and squinted into the gloom as Osbeorn chewed happily on his prize: ‘bastard.’
Osbeorn threw him a wink, rolling the hot chunk to one side of his mouth as he made a reply. ‘You had your chance Oct’; too slow.’
Octa snorted at his hearth mate’s cheek and peered across to the East. Even from within the cover of the woodland it was plain that the sun was approaching Middle-earth as the celestial horse drew it across the dome of the sky. He finished licking the last of the sticky mixture from his spoon and popped it back inside his pouch. ‘The old nag’s up,’ he said with a roll of his eyes, ‘time to get moving.’
Eadward whistled softly as he shook the damp from his hair and one of his youth hurried across. ‘Lord?’
‘Wake the children,’ he said. ‘And make sure that they are quiet.’
They watched as the lad trotted across to the makeshift shelter and began to nudge the sleeping inhabitants with the butt of his spear. Three spoonfuls each and the broth would be gone, and every man there knew that the meal could very well be their last.
The rain had begun almost the same moment that Spearhafoc had spotted the old wattle hurdle off to one side of the path. It had been an amazing piece of fortune and one which they had eagerly grasped. The pathway had been growing more and more indistinct by the moment, very soon they would have had to squat and take their rest where they were, whatever the danger. Moving single file to limit the evidence of their passage, they had carried the panel to the far side of a gentle rise in the ground. Hidden from the track, the hurdle had been wedged between the trunks of two small beech trees and covered by a layer of the leaf mulch which carpeted the floor. Stacked beneath the makeshift shelter like logs for the hearth, the youth had been asleep even before the more senior members of the troop had set the guards and hunkered down into their cloaks for the night.
The youth came back to his main task as his hearth mates began to pull themselves from the stack. The Danes, even if they had found a way to cross the river, should be a good distance behind them for that night at least. They too, he reasoned, had had a tough day of it the day before, and even if they could see in the dark they would need food and rest before continuing the pursuit.
As the youth gathered to dip their spoons, the fire was smothered with soil and darkness returned to cloak the scene. A quick glance up at the ridge line told Eadward that the guard was alert to any danger from the South, and he indicated that the senior hearth warriors gather in the lee of the back slope. It was the first real opportunity that they had had to converse since they had left the ship, and the thegn was determined to make the most of it. He glanced across to Hrothmund and jerked his head: ‘you too.’ The Dane’s face lit up as he pocketed his own spoon and began to follow on.
The first light of the new day was beginning to touch the sky, anvil grey to match the mood, and Eadward wiped the rain from his face with his hand as he began to address the duguth. ‘You have all slept on it. Are we all still agreed?’ He looked across to Hrothmund who had attached himself to the end of the line. Eadward could not help noticing that the prince was still giving Thrush Hemming a wide berth and was thankful for it. They were in a bad enough situation as it was, without having to contend with the effects of a man’s wounded pride. ‘You are sure there is nothing more that you can tell us about this area, Hrothmund?’
The Dane shook his head. ‘As I said last night, I have never travelled this path. The River which we crossed used to mark the boundary between our lands and those of the Wulfings, but now,’ he shrugged apologetically, ‘who can say?’
They all nodded knowingly, everywhere in the North folk were on the move. In the time of their fathers the Wulfing kingdom stre
tched in an arc from one shore of Scania to the other, hemming the Danes within their coastal pale, even threatening to push them back into the islands in the Belts. But like the Engles themselves the wolf men were now moving away to Britannia, and they were beginning to feel the resurgent power of the Danes pushing upon their borders as the Scylding kingdom spread out into the surrounding lands like a dark stain.
Adda, Eadward’s duguth, cut in, sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘And we can expect no help from the jarl hereabouts, what with you being a Danish prince and kinsman to boot?’
Hrothmund recognised the scorn contained within the question but replied levelly. Natural enemies of his people or not, he was well aware that his life depended on their goodwill. ‘Yes, Heoroweard is my cousin as you say, but equally he is the cousin of the man who now styles himself King Hrothulf. I doubt that he even knows that my father is dead,’ the Dane continued. ‘But when he does find out he will have to deal with the situation as he finds it, not how he wishes it to be. Hrothulf wears the king helm of Daneland. What is more they are both Woden born like myself, so both men are king-worthy whether I like the fact or not; I could just as likely discover that Heoroweard had designs on the gift-stool himself as find an ally.’
Hemming hawked and spat before throwing his own comment into the discussion. ‘That is if he was not in on the murder.’ Eadward threw him a look of exasperation as the big man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dodgy lot, the Danes,’ he spat again and fixed the prince with a glare: ‘untrustworthy.’
The conversation was beginning to drift away from the matter at hand, which was Eadward knew, their survival. He took up the reins of the discussion once again as the youth began to move away to collect their weapons. ‘At least we know that there are no settlements in the area. The pathway leads northwards through the backwoods with no access to the coastal belt. That means,’ he said, ‘that once the Danes are across the river they will have to double back on themselves to regain this path. It could take them a day, who knows? It also means,’ he added, ‘that they cannot easily detach a ship’s crew to sail north and cut us off. It’s to be a straightforward chase between us and them and I think,’ he said with a weary smile, ‘that we have the best reason to win that race.’
