by C. R. May
In the following volume Eofer and his hearth troop will fight in new lands. As the first war bands move into the area which will become the Kingdom of Mercia, simmering rivalries between rival British kingdoms flare into open conflict.
Cliff May
July 2016
EOFER’S JOURNEY BEGINS
IN MY EARLIER SERIES
SWORD OF WODEN
READ THE OPENING CHAPTER
OF BOOK ONE
SORROW HILL
FOLLOWING CHARACTERS
& PLACES/LOCATIONS
Characters
Ælfheah - Ship thegn of the Hildstapa.
Anna - A youth.
Astrid – Daughter of King Hygelac of Geatland, wife of Eofer.
Bassa – A youth.
Beornwulf – A youth.
Coelwulf – An English thegn. Eofer’s friend and neighbour in Engeln.
Crawa – A youth, twin to Hræfen.
Eadward - Ship thegn on the Hwælspere.
Eahlswith – King Eomær’s cwen.
Editha - Astrid’s thyften, her handmaid.
Eofer Wonreding, king’s bane – Son of Wonred, brother of Wulf.
Eomær Engeltheowing - King of the English.
Finn – A youth.
Grimwulf – An English thræl, freed in Daneland. Joins Eofer’s youth.
Gudmund - Geat thegn at Skansen.
Heardred Hygelacson - King of Geatland. Eofer’s brother-in-law.
Hnæf - Eadward’s steersman on the Hwælspere.
Hræfen – A youth, brother of Crawa.
Hrethric Hrothgarson - Brother of Hrothmund, killed by assassins while hunting.
Hrok - A Dane. Killed by Eofer at holm-gang.
Hrothgar Halfdanson– King of Daneland.
Hrothmund Hrothgarson - Brother of Hrethric. Escapes the assassination attempt in which his brother is killed. Flees to Geatland with Eofer and Eadward.
Hrothulf Halgason - Nephew of King Hrothgar. Assassinates the king and usurps the throne of Daneland.
Icel Eomæring – English ætheling, son of King Eomær.
Kaija - A volva.
Leofwine - Ship thegn of the Grægwulf.
Octa – Eofer’s duguth.
Osbeorn – Eofer’s duguth.
Osea – King of Jutes.
Osric – A shipwright at Strand.
Penda – A duguth, Wonred’s weorthman.
Porta – A youth.
Rand – A youth. Killed by Spearhafoc.
Sæward – Eofer’s steersman. A duguth.
Spearhafoc/Dwynwyn – Sparrowhawk, Eofer’s British shield-maiden.
Starkad Storvirkson – A viking in the pay of the Danes.
Swinna/Horsa - A captive with Eofer. Later joins his war band.
Thrush Hemming – Eofer’s weorthman, his senior duguth.
Ubba silk beard– A Danish warlord. Killed by Eofer at holm-gang.
Ulf - Danish guard at Hroar’s Kilde.
Weohstan – Young son of Eofer and Astrid. At foster in Geatland with his maternal uncle, King Heardred.
Wonred – Folctoga and father of Eofer and Wulf.
Wulf Wonreding – Son of Wonred, brother of Eofer. A gesith in the war band of King Eomær.
Wulfhere - Eadward’s weorthman. Killed during the chase through Scania.
Yrse - Swedish queen. Mother and sister of King Hrothulf of Danes.
Places/Locations
Ælmere - The Zuyder Zee, the remnants of which are the Ijsselmere in the Netherlands.
The River Aldu – The River Alde, Suffolk, England.
The Cat Gate - The Kattegat.
Cnobheresburg – The Roman Saxon shore fort of Garianonum, the remains of which are now known as Burgh castle, Norfolk, England.
The Crossing – Vejle, Jutland, Denmark.
The River Egedore – River Eider, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
Eyrarsund - Øresund, the strait between modern Sjælland and Skåne.
The River Gipping – The River Orwell, Suffolk, England.
Godmey - Gudme, Fyn, Denmark.
Great Belt – The channel between Fyn and Sjælland.
Harrow – Hearg/temple, now the Danish island of Fyn.
Hereford – Rendsburg, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
Hleidre – Lejre, Sjælland, Denmark.
Hroar’s Kilde – Roskilde, Sjælland, Denmark.
Hven - An island in the Øresund strait.
Hwælness – Whale Ness – Sankt Peter-Ording, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
Little Belt – The channel between Jutland and Fyn in present day Denmark.
The Muddy Sea – Nordfriesisches Wattenmeer, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
North Strand – Nordstrand – Wattenmeer, Nordfriesland, Germany.
Old Ford – Hollingstedt, Schleswig-Flensburg, Germany.
The Oxen Way – An ancient roadway, still known today as the Ochsenweg, stretches of which can still be followed as it wends its way approximately north-south the length of the Jutland peninsula.
Porta’s Mutha – Portsmouth, now Friedrichstadt, Nordfriesland,
Germany.
River Rin - The River Rhine.
Scania - Götaland, Skåne County, Sweden.
Skansen - Kungsbakka, Halland, Sweden.
Skerkir - ‘Rowdy’, Stevns Klint, Sjælland, Denmark.
The Sley – Schlei, Schleswig-Flensburg, Germany.
Sleyswic – Schleswig, Schleswig-Flensburg, Germany.
Snæpe - Snape, Suffolk, England.
Strand – Suderhafen, Nordstrand, Germany.
Suthworthig – Eckernforde, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
Theodford (1) – Kappeln, Schleswig-Flensburg, Germany.
Theodford (2) – Thetford, Breckland, Norfolk, England.
The River Trene – River Treene, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.
The River Udsos – The River Ouse, East Anglia, England.
The River Wahenhe – The River Waveney, Suffolk, England.
Yarnemutha - Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, England.
There was no one else like him alive.
In his day, he was the mightiest man on earth;
High born and powerful.
ONE
The boy stood at the base of the tree and cocked his head, listening. With the daylight almost spent he would need to hurry, but now the old familiar ghosts began to gather around him, unbidden, unwelcome. He could just turn around and ride home, back to his life of privilege and comfort and none would be any wiser. Or he could face down his demons, push on and risk a violent and lonely death. His head whispered return home, his heart seize the day. He knew which path his father would have taken. Ecgtheow was a great warrior, one of the king’s leading men, an ealdorman. With a troop of hearth companions, the grizzled veteran of countless shield walls was a generous ring giver, a man whom any warrior would be proud to serve and call his lord, but it was a truth that the boy felt overwhelmed by the expectations placed upon him by his father’s greatness.
Disturbed by his sudden appearance, a wood pigeon clattered from the branches above him. Rising into the cool spring air, the boy watched as the grey bird spread its wings and glided beyond the tree line. It was a god-sign that the killers were away, and the young Geat smiled and touched the small hammer pendant at his neck in thanks. There was no choice to be made he knew, he could not go back now to live a life of obscurity, forever the boy. His decision made, the ghosts of self-doubt retreated back into the shadows. Today he would begin to carve out a reputation for himself, one which would give the scops, the guardians of folk history, cause to recount the deeds of a new hero in the smoky halls of his people. That story would begin at this place, on this day; men not yet born would wonder at the deeds of Beowulf Ecgtheowson.
Struggling from his thick travelling cloak, Beowulf wrapped it tightly around his body as his eyes scanned the lower branches. Darkness was already beginning to envelop the land, and he would be thankful for it soon enough if he were
to spend a night in the tree, poised for his assault early the next day. Looping a small bag around his shoulder he gave the strap a sharp tug, pulling it securely to his body as he decided on the likeliest route upwards. The shadows were lengthening quickly now, the time available to him slipping away as he launched himself at the branch. Weary hands found a grip and he grunted with effort as he began to haul himself up into the foliage, feet scrabbling for a toehold as he slung an arm across the bough and held on tight. At last his efforts paid off, and a boot wedged into one of the many runnels which lined the old trunk. With a final heave he was there and, safely aloft, he moved swiftly upwards as the sounds of the forest faded beneath him.
Clear of the lower levels the branches were densely packed, and he made good progress as he pushed his way through. The sweet smell of pine resin quickly replaced the mustiness of the forest floor as, branch by branch, he climbed towards the canopy. As Beowulf rose higher the limbs crowded in, clutching at his clothing as he forced his way towards his goal. A flash of brilliant light startled him as without warning he burst from the canopy into the full glare of the setting sun, but a fear filled glance was enough to tell him that the killers were still elsewhere as he jerked his head back into the shadows and listened. Nothing came but the sounds of the forest; a gentle breeze caressing the treetops, somewhere in the middle distance the dog-like bark of a vixen carried to haunt the greenwood.
It was a mistake born of exhaustion but it could so easily have cost him his life, and the young Geat cursed his sloppiness as he made his way back to the place he had marked to spend the night. The sun’s dying light was struggling to pierce the canopy now, and he still had one last task to perform in readiness for the assault. Unslinging his pack Beowulf loosened the ties, removing several small strips of cloth and laying them out carefully on his thigh. Snapping off one of the small twigs from the nearest branch the boy gently stroked each one, gradually coating them in a thin layer of sticky resin, before popping them into a small leather purse and stashing it away.
Finally set, the young Geat stifled a yawn as the trials of the day overtook him, but he was satisfied that he had made all the preparations that he could for the dawn, and he settled his back against the bole of the tree as he gnawed hungrily at a hard wedge of cheese. A piercing screech told him that the killers had returned but he had chosen his hiding place well, and Beowulf allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as the last rays of the sun slowly paled, leaving him in a world of darkness, silence, and bitter cold.
* * *
The eyrie loomed above him, enormous and menacing, as he prepared to climb the last few feet. He had planned as well as he could for this moment, tracking the adult eagles back to their nest over many weeks to discover which one of the several nests in the area the pair had chosen to lay their eggs in this year. From talking to his father’s falconer he had determined when the best time to raid the nest had been. Too early and he would find only eggs, too late and the chicks would be too strong to take.
Beowulf had stepped up his visits to the area soon after the harsh northern winter had begun to give way to the gentler days of spring, and as soon as the birds had begun to return with food for the chicks he had finalised his plans. Now the moment had finally arrived, and Beowulf braced against the trunk, nervously scanning the sky for any sign of the adult birds returning. He had chosen this part of the day to make his assault on the eyrie carefully. Svip, the falconer, had told him that the parents would spend each night at the nest and at first light they should both leave together in search of food. At two weeks the eaglets would be large enough to see off predators such as crows or gulls, enabling both parents to satisfy their own hunger before returning to the eyrie with food for their offspring. Beowulf hoped that this would give him just enough time to remove the chicks and regain cover before one or both of the adults returned. The chances that a fully grown man would survive an attack were slim; a boy who had only just lived through his sixth winter could expect only a swift and savage end.
Beowulf quartered the skies above as he forced down a fear which threatened to overwhelm him. An invisible force seemed to have reached out to hold him in its grip, anchoring his body to the gently swaying branches. He knew that he must overcome it or regret this moment for the rest of his life. With a last gulp of air he steeled himself, breaking the mental chains as he forced his body forward.
Now!
With a racing heart Beowulf grabbed the edge of the eyrie, swinging himself over the lip and onto the surface of the nest. Ahead of him two chicks stood among the remains of last night’s meal, too busy squabbling over the pelt of a rabbit to notice the danger which had landed in their midst.
Tearing open the bag, Beowulf quickly laid out the leather pouch containing the tacky strips and made a grab. Scooping up the nearest chick, he quickly bound the razor-like beak with the material before stuffing the struggling body away. Spooked by the intruder and the disappearance of his brood mate, the remaining chick scrambled away as the boy’s eyes cast a fearful look skyward, and his mind raced as a whimper of fear escaped his lips. The surface of the eyrie was a mess of sticks, as rough as an old man’s beard and strewn with skulls, bones and pelts: the pathetic remains of previous meals. Unbalanced on the rickety lip of the bowl, Beowulf lunged and missed again. A wave of fear threatened to overwhelm him as he thrashed among the debris, well aware that time was short and his life hung in the balance. Desperate now as the daylight brightened, Beowulf scrambled across and snatched up the remaining chick, quickly binding its beak and shoving it inside the sack with its sibling.
Away to the East the horizon flared as the wolf-grey light of the pre dawn was chased away, and the eyrie shone a burnished bronze as the sun broke free of the world's rim. As if to mark the moment a piercing screech from above tore into his mind, and the boy gasped in horror as a shadow flitted across the surface of the nest.
Panic stricken he swung his legs back over the rim, his feet desperately searching out a foothold as the bird dipped a wing and turned back. The eagle, its wicked talons glinting in the sun, bore down on his exposed head as he clung helplessly to the side of the nest. There was only one thing that he could do to stand any chance of surviving the adult’s attack, and in desperation he released his grip.
As the giant bird flashed through his vision the first strike crashed into his back, knocking the air from his body as he tumbled down through the canopy in a series of heavy blows before coming to rest on a large branch winded, bruised, scratched but alive. As Beowulf’s senses returned in a rush he heard the piercing cries of the adult eagle as it searched for him. It would take only moments before the bird found him, as peering skywards he could still see a slash of grey through the trail of broken and twisted branches which marked the path through which his body had fallen.
A moment of fear as he scrabbled for his knife, but hope flared within him as his hand closed about the handle, the blade still in its scabbard after the long fall. High above cries of alarm still cut the air, and in a moment of clarity Beowulf instinctively knew that the only chance that he had to survive the day was to attack and silence the eagle as quickly as possible, before its urgent cries brought its mate rushing to its aid. He looped the bag containing his catch to a bough as he tore off his cloak, wrapping the woollen sheet tightly around his shield arm as he drew the dagger and edged into the open.
Almost immediately the air around him became a maelstrom of beating wings and slashing talons as the eagle attacked.
Beowulf retreated before the ferocity of the parent's onslaught, back into the canopy of the tree, frantically using his improvised shield to fend off the enraged bird. As he had hoped, the thick cover of the branches were not only good for concealment, they snatched and pulled at the bird's great wings as it forced its way into the crush. Lord of the air and a perfect killer in its element the eagle was becoming entangled, and Beowulf knew that if he could just stay out of reach and remain calm, an opportunity to win the conte
st would present itself.
First one wing snagged and then the other, and he knew that he would have to act quickly to seize his best chance of surviving the encounter. Beowulf edged forward in a last do-or-die attempt to trap and kill the bird before it regained its freedom, and he forced down a gut twisting fear as he thrust forward his arm.
With a sky ripping screech the eagle took the bait, its legs flying forward as the talons sank deeply into the material of the cloak. Instantly Beowulf twisted his arm, ensnaring the bird in the heavy wool, tugging the eagle back into the thicker press of leafage. The great bird thrashed the air in an attempt to free itself, but drawing deeply on reserves of strength which he had never tapped before the Geat hurled it onto its back, pearls of blood misting the air as he stabbed and stabbed.
* * *
The light was gone, the long day a memory when Beowulf ventured from his hiding place. A petal of flame flickered into life in the twilight, and the boy’s spirits rose as he retrieved his mount, forded the beck and guided the horse towards the grove. The promise of warm food and warmer flames drew him on, and he was soon within hailing distance of the buttery circle of light. A solitary figure sat within it, his back resting against an aged trunk, and Beowulf called out as he grew nearer.
“I am approaching the camp, friend.”
He had been on enough hunting trips into the wild wood to know of the dangers of approaching camp fires unannounced. Folk were skittish enough alone on the moors or in the great forests of Geatland at night, without seeing shadowy shapes coming at them out of the gloom. The figure replied without raising his gaze from the dancing flames.
“Yes, I know that you are boy. You are welcome at my fire.”
