by C. R. May
To his delight Hygelac watched as the Francish line moved forward fifty paces and halted as they began to chant their war cries. As they did so the crow-wizards stepped forward to bless the warriors as he had expected them to do, inadvertently obscuring the ballista on the far bank and removing the very real threat to his plans which they had formed.
The sequence of events before him could only have been the work of the Allfather and Hygelac closed his eyes briefly and muttered a few words of gratitude to the war god. His decision made he turned to address his hearth warriors for what he knew would be the final time. Already privy to his plans he found that they had known that the decision had been made before he could open his mouth. Immediately to his rear Wulf and Tofi were embracing in a final display of friendship, whilst all around men were saying their final farewells to friends and kinsmen. A knot of emotion welled up in the king's throat as he witnessed the bravery on display in his army and he felt a strange mix of pride and regret that he should have led such men to their end. Wulf's arm reached out and drew his lord into the group, all deference to rank momentarily forgotten and for a fleeting moment the king knew the freedom and brotherhood of the hearth warrior for a final time. As they stepped back he remembered the last of their group, about to become the protector of a flank which was no longer there.
“Go and grab Thurgar and his boys, as quick as you can,” he muttered to Tofi. “We go the moment you get back.”
Hefting his shield Hygelac closed his hand around the throwing spear and tossed it as he sought the point of perfect balance. It was the same angon which he had used to kill the first of the Huns earlier that day and he knew that Woden would appreciate the gesture. Inhaling deeply Hygelac ran his gaze across the scene before him. The meadow sloped gently down, a drugget of daisies and buttercups. A smattering of white butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom as the warm winds of high summer swept them to and fro. Suddenly a gust swept one of them over to land on the rim of a warriors shield and Hygelac marvelled as the man removed it gently with his finger and ushered it on its way to safety. Faced with death any life became precious, he reflected sadly. A familiar deep voice boomed over his shoulder.
“We are here, lord, and I remembered to bring the cups for later,” it joked. “Woden might be short of cups with the numbers of new guests he is about to receive!”
Hygelac turned and embraced the startled Thurgar as his friends pummelled his back, glad that their comitatus was complete again. Hygelac turned back and checked that all was still well.
To his right the Frisian leader, the raven man, had yet to reach the front rank of their shield wall. To the front the crow-wizards were still swinging smoky pots about on the end of a rope for some obscure reason and the Francish line was still far from complete. At its centre, directly ahead of him down the gentle incline stood the king of Francs surrounded by his banners and crosses. Now would be the time to start their barritus he knew, the great war cry of the northern folk, but he was also aware that this opportunity would pass in moments. Besides, he snorted gently, the power of the barritus would foretell the victor in the coming duel and that result was already known to each and every man standing on the field.
Hygelac flicked a look to left and right and was gratified to see that his gaze was returned by every man in the Geat army. All eyes were on him and him alone as they waited for the cry which would unleash their death charge.
Raising his shield and angon Hygelac roared out the name of their folk.
“Geats!”
As the answering roar from the army rolled down the slope the king bounded forward at the only place that a king of Geats should die, the very apex of a boiling, roistering boar snout.
Beowulf, Cola and Hrafn trotted their mounts towards the small group of men who were guarding the bridge. At their approach, one of the guards hopped down from the parapet and ambled into the road, holding up a hand to indicate that they rein in as he did so.
Beowulf flicked open the 'peace bands' which held his sword in place and did as he was bid, drawing to a halt several paces before the man. The other men had noticed the quality and bearing of the warriors who had appeared suddenly at the entrance to their bridge and slowly and self consciously lowered themselves to the roadway, straightening their leather jerkins as they did so. The first guard nodded slightly to his obvious superior and, almost apologetically, asked them to identify themselves. Beowulf smiled warmly and answered in his friendliest tone.
“My name is Beowulf Ecgtheowson, Ealdorman of Geatwic and these men are Cola, an Engle and Hrafn a Swede. We are on the way to rejoin our king at Dorestada. Are we still going in the right direction?”
Beowulf managed to keep a straight face as the guard's puzzled expression turned to horror as he realised that the appearance and accent of the warriors before him did indeed indicate that they were the enemy he had been told to guard the bridge against.
Beowulf reached his right hand across and drew his sword, Naegling, with a satisfying swish and examined the blade as Cola and Hrafn urged their mounts alongside his. He noticed that Cola was shaking his head sternly at the group of men on the bridge as their hands moved across to hover near the shafts of the spears which they had stacked haphazardly in a small recess. Beowulf examined the swirls and patterns made in the blade by the master smith centuries ago as they flashed and gleamed in the early afternoon sun. It really was a thing of exquisite beauty. He could, and had on occasion, marvelled at the workmanship all day but today he was in a hurry. Today he was going to war.
“I need an answer very quickly. If I had not had a question you would all be dead already so I would hurry if I were you. Apparently there is going to be a big fight today and I want to be in it.”
The guard looked quickly from Beowulf's sword, over to his companions and back to Neagling. It was obvious to him that he was on his own and any thoughts of resistance quickly melted away.
“I heard that too, lord,” he eventually replied. He had apparently decided that he was about to die and would go with as much dignity as possible. Beowulf was impressed. He was at least a head taller than almost any man and powerfully built. He was also fully armed, a Geat lord dressed for war, and as such he was intended to intimidate by his presence alone. He decided that he would spare the man's life if he could. He raised his brow, indicating that the Franc continue with his answer.
“Yes, lord, this is the road. If you follow it down it will take you directly to Dorestada, as straight as a spear.”
Beowulf nodded.
“How far is it?”
The guard pulled a face as he thought.
“Twenty, twenty-five miles or so, lord. There are the remains of an old Roman cavalry station at a place called Mannaricium which is about four or five miles short of the place. If you look out for the mile markers which they left beside the road they will count you down until you get there.”
Beowulf nodded, satisfied.
“What is your name?”
“Childerich, lord.”
Beowulf fished inside the purse which hung at his waist and tossed the astonished man a small gold coin.
“Here, Childerich, you have balls you deserve it. Now swallow it, it would be a shame to lose it so soon.”
The guard looked at them in confusion.
“Lord?”
“Swallow it quickly and you can get it back in a few days time. Delay me any longer and I will take your head off here and now.”
The Franc hastily swallowed the coin as his companions looked on, bemused.
“Right, all of you. Leave your weapons here, run to the middle of the bridge and jump in. Any man that I catch up with I will kill. Go quickly!”
After a heartbeat's indecision the Francs tore across the bridge and leapt over the parapet, landing moments later in a series of dull splashes far below. Cola dismounted and, scooping up the discarded weapons gave them a quick appraisal. After a moment he looked up at his lord and shook his head in disgust.
“Nothing worth having here, lord, it’s all crap.”
Beowulf nodded, he had suspected as much.
“Throw it downstream and let's get going. We have wasted long enough here but at least we now know that we are on the right road. We will be there in a few hours, let's go!”
They had left Bebba soon after the dawn had broken, red and menacing, on the eastern skyline. Beowulf had agreed with the Saxon boat master's view that it would be far too risky to travel to Dorestada along the Rin and they had berthed at a small trading settlement on the southern bank of the river an hour before dawn. They were close to the town of Arnheim and therefore firmly in the territory of the Francs but as with all border areas gold and silver ruled amongst the traders who inhabited these parts far more than the edicts of distant kings and lords.
Bebba had astonished Beowulf as he had slipped off the hammer of Thunor which he wore at his neck and replaced it with a symbol of the Christian nailed man but, as the trader had replied with a nonchalant shrug, “it enables me to trade and stay in these parts. A man has to make a living and after all,” he laughed unashamedly, “there is no harm in adding another god to your collection is there! They all know that I keep a shrine to the gods at home in Saxland but they are happy to turn a blind eye and play along if there is a profit to be made. We are all not so different after all.”
His point had been backed up by the immediate change in mood of the contact which Bebba had rousted from his bed in the iron-grey light of the pre-dawn. Good silver had exchanged hands and very soon they had been bidding a grateful farewell to the boat master and his delighted, if slightly dishevelled, trading partner as they rode west on three fine horses under the slowly lightening sky.
If they had thought that the journey back to the army would be as simple as following a road which ran 'as straight as a spear' they were soon to be cruelly disappointed. The lowlands hereabouts were crisscrossed with rivers and watercourses of all descriptions, from mighty rivers to rivulets and drainage ditches, and it became increasingly evident that every crossing place had been guarded by the enemy.
Usually it was only a few inexperienced warriors, not much more than armed townsmen, but it was obvious that they could not fight their way through each and every group without bringing more serious opposition to their progress down upon them. Everywhere they looked the tell tale sign of armed men on the move became increasingly evident. Dust clouds climbed into the hot summer sky and mid morning they had been forced to watch from afar as a large host passed to their front heading down from the north. The sea eagle banner which flew proudly above the leading elements clearly indicated that the army of the Fris had not been as comprehensively defeated earlier in the summer as they had been led to believe, a fact supported by the raven banner of Woden which snapped at its side.
Reluctantly Beowulf had had to turn away from the fine Roman Road and move to the North. By taking the byways which shadowed the main route he would arrive at the town later than he had hoped but at least he could be more certain that he would in fact reach his destination. They were three of the finest fighting men in the North but even they could not hope to fight their way through an entire army.
What was to have been a ride of a few short hours became a frustrating series of gallops and enforced halts as the enemy swirled around them like an incoming tide. Above them the cawing of crows filled the air as they hastened to the feast which men were about to provide for them and, glancing down to the South, Beowulf could tell the location of the town as a dark cloud of the birds washed to and fro above.
By late afternoon Beowulf, Cola and Hrafn were close enough to Dorestada to catch snippets of the sound of battle brought to them on the occasional gasps of wind, roars, cries and the familiar clash of steel on steel. Sporadically a sound which was unknown to them cut through the clamour as the thwack made by the gods knew what rent the air.
The track came up to a fine Roman Road which led directly south and, desperate now, Beowulf turned the head of his mount and took it. Ahead of him a slight rise led up to a town which could only be his destination and they kicked in and galloped alongside the Frisian stragglers. Wounded men moving to the rear told of the intensity of the fighting up ahead but the fact that the Fris had still obviously not broken and ran like he had expected them to gnawed at his mind. He had rushed to rejoin the army of his king and kinsman to share in the glory of a great victory but the first real seeds of doubt began to creep, unbidden and unwanted, into his being.
Approaching the lip of the rise Beowulf adjusted his helm strap and flicked open the peace bands which held Neagling secure in her scabbard. He had told Cola and Hrafn that he intended to gallop straight into the rear of the enemy force and cut a swath through to the Geat army before they could react. Any attack from an unexpected direction usually caused chaos among the lesser warriors who tended to congregate there. Before their leaders could react to the new threat he expected to be through the Fris line and safely back amongst his own people.
Taking up his shield he glanced to left and right as he checked that his men had moved up on him to form the wedge and was shocked to see a look of horror cross their faces. Beowulf looked quickly back to the front and stared, dumbfounded, at the sight which greeted him.
14
Fifty yards, fifty paces, quickly became forty and then thirty as Hygelac tore across the grassy meadow like a rampaging bull. His senses sharpened as the battle fury came upon him and he became aware of the crashing of hundreds of booted feet and the metallic jangle of war gear even above the thunderous din of the Geat war cries. Ahead of him a few of the Francs, the more experienced old hands amongst them, were beginning to recover from their surprise and were hastily overlapping shields as the surge of northmen swept down on them. Hygelac realised that he was roaring maniacally as he saw the horror and panic etched onto their features. The front rank was going to form in time he could see, but the men to the rear still appeared to be finding their places. He still had a chance to punch through to the Francish leader but that chance would lessen by the moment.
At twenty paces Hygelac drew back his right arm and with a cry of dedication to the Allfather launched the angon over their heads, deep into the rear ranks of the fiend. Reaching across his body he drew his short stabbing seax with one smooth sweep and crashed on.
The king edged slightly to the right as a panic stricken crow-wizard finally realised the danger which was sweeping down on him and staggered comically backwards, dropping the strange smoking pot as he did so. Hygelac just managed to resisted the impulse to smash into the man as he knew that it would waste the energy of the charge and a heartbeat later he slammed into the Francs with a bone jarring crack as shield boss and linden board came together.
Hygelac gritted his teeth as he threw his left shoulder into the rear of the board and pushed desperately against the weight of the defenders. He caught his breath in alarm as his standing foot began to slip and slide on the damp ground, to lose your footing in this place meant almost immediate and certain death, but an instant later Thurgar's shield thumped into his back, lifting him forward and knocking the breath from his lungs in a painful rush. Suddenly he realised that Wulf and Tofi were on his flanks and they pushed forward together as the sounds of fighting spread along the entire front.
A face moved into his field of vision, the man's arm raised as he attempted to stab down with a short spear and Hygelac desperately tried to free his right arm and bring his seax up to parry the thrust but he was wedged tightly in the crush of bodies, unable to move. Grunting with the effort he redoubled his drive forward and was rewarded with the gain of a few extra inches. It was enough and the point of the framea glanced off of his helm and slid harmlessly down his side. The last push had opened up a small rift between the enemy shields before him and Hygelac worked his seax into the gap, pushing and probing until he felt the tip of his blade brush against the unmistakably metallic sensation of mail. With a sharp stab the blade tested the rings of ste
el and found them wanting. A scream of pain and horror arose from immediately to the king's front as his short sword burst through the links and slid easily into the soft organs behind them.
Hygelac risked a glance to the right as he drove forward and was gratified to see that his boar snout had punched deep inside the Francish shield burg. All along the line the Francs were wavering as the Geats hacked and pushed at them, driving themselves forward with all the ferocity of men whose sole aim was to gain the approval of their god, earning a place in his hall until they would accompany his war band at the end of days.
Hygelac surged forward a little more as further Geat warriors massed to the rear and added their weight to the push. A final duel was being enacted above him as framea darted back and forth and then, suddenly, he burst through the Francish line into clear space. The king opened his mouth to call to his hearth warriors but the familiar voice of Wulf cried above the din, anticipating the question.
“We are here, lord!”
A quick glance to left and right told the king that the line had been breached in several places and his men were streaming through. His standard bearer appeared at his side, panting with the exertion of the run and fight carrying the heavy herebeacn, the white boar of Geatland.
