Fire & Steel

by C. R. May

  Eofer pulled a face, “Cerdic and Cynric?” He shrugged and shot his duguth a grin. “They pay well!”

  They shared a laugh as the British warriors hopped from ship to ship, filling each in turn as the crews prepared to cast off. Eofer continued as the first of the dark haired warriors began to fill the hull of the Sæ Wulf. “Cerdic and Cynric, father and son. Cerdic strongarm is the son of the old champion of the Belgae, Elesius, who in turn was the son of one of the warlord Arthur's close companions, Osla big knife.”

  Hemming looked at him quizzically. “Osla? Unusual name for a Briton.”

  Eofer snorted. “That's because he wasn't.” He raised a brow as he repeated the nickname. “Big knife?”

  Hemming's expression softened and he nodded that he understood. “Big knife, a Seax. So he was a Saxon then?”

  Eofer nodded. Although the short, stabbing, seax was a common weapon among the armies in the North, the sword length bent-backed blade was more characteristic of the warriors who belonged to the Saxon tribes. “When Arthur died Cerdic's faction lost the power struggle and he had to flee abroad with his son. Now that he has had time to rebuild his strength he has hired us to carry his army across the sea and add a touch of steel to his homecoming.” The English thegn lowered his voice as the British leader leapt the final obstacle and landed amidships. “Let's hope that he has not underestimated the level of support waiting for him at home. Three keels is hardly what you would call an invasion fleet!”

  Eofer watched as Sæward took the draco from Cerdic's banner man and threaded it to a halyard. Within moments the golden dragon was rising to the mast top in a series of short, jerky movements. Cerdic's men let out a cheer as the golden dragon took the wind and pointed its tail to the North. Eofer painted his features with a smile and went to greet his paymaster as the last of his warriors tumbled down into the hull.

  “Welcome aboard the Sæ Wulf, lord,” he said. “I am Eofer king's bane. Are you set?”

  The Briton returned his smile and Eofer felt the charisma of the man wash over him. A head taller than the men of his guard though less stocky in build, the lighter skin tone and flaxen hair of the British leader served to reinforce the fact that his ancestry lay further north and west of the land he now called home.

  The Briton ran his eyes over the Englishman and nodded, obviously satisfied with his choice. “As set as I will ever be, Eofer,” he answered. Cerdic glanced up at the draco as it stretched out to the North, before returning his gaze. “It seems that my banner is as impatient to be home as I am.” He turned and called his companion forward and Eofer recognised the younger man for who he was before the introduction. “This is Cynric,” Cerdic beamed proudly, “my son.”

  Cynric came forward and Eofer was pleased to see that the boy had inherited his father's easy manner as well as his physical features as he welcomed him aboard. Cynric flashed him a smile in return. “King's bane,” he said. “We were introduced by a travelling bard to the tale of the fight in Swede Land in which you earned your name. We are pleased to have your sword with us on our little adventure.”

  As Eofer inclined his head in thanks, Cerdic indicated Sæward with a jerk of his head. “Your senior helmsman?” Eofer called his duguth across and the magister nodded to a thick set man who had hovered to one side as they spoke. “This is Anwyl, my own ship master.” The sailor ducked his head in acknowledgement as his master continued. “I hope that you don't mind, but I would like him to guide you through my home waters. No man knows them as well as he, and if we let the tides sweep us into the waters we call the Soluente we could be in big trouble.” He smiled again. “The tides and currents are treacherous there and I would feel rather foolish stranded on a sandbank as my enemies came to finish me off!”

  As Sæward led Anwyl aft, the last of the British warriors came aboard. Eofer and Cerdic exchanged a look as they settled themselves into the area which had been prepared for them. “That's it,” Cerdic smiled as the last of his men stacked their shields and spears amidships. “I am keen to be away while this wind holds. If you leave now we should exit the bay before the tide turns.”

  Bassa and Beornwulf, the youth who formed the permanent crew on Eofer's own ship, Fælcen, were within earshot and a quick nod from their eorle sent them scurrying ashore to release the bowline from the mooring post there. The action was mirrored on the other two English ships as the crews came alive and moved to their stations. As the boys leapt back aboard and the ships moved away from the land, the crews waited patiently until there was enough sea room to slip the oars into tholepins. Sæward caught his eye as the ships slid apart and Eofer nodded. Filling his lungs with the cool morning air the ship master cried out time as the rowers curled their backs and the oars swept the surface. Slowly the Sæ Wulf gathered way as the men settled into their rhythm and the other ships took station to either side.

  Eofer cast a look back at the shore as the vessel gathered speed. A cloud of gulls dipped in their wake as the ships pulled clear of the land, the dark headed birds searching out the fish guts and smaller fry which they associated with men and ships. On land the white line of grins split the faces of several fishermen as one of their number chased a shrieking woman around a pile of woven fish traps. It was not quite the rapturous send off he had imagined that Cerdic strongarm, the saviour of Belgic Britain would have had, but then the Welsh were Christians and it did sometimes seem that the religion frowned upon unnecessary displays of emotion. Eofer's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt as he contemplated the summer ahead. One way or another, he doubted that the blade would sleep in its scabbard until the harvest was gathered safely in.

  The waves slapped noisily against the hulls of the ships as they wallowed in the swell, and the last of the ropes which bound them together were lashed down. Low to the South the moon was full, and ships and sea alike were bathed in a silver sheen. As the temperature began to tumble and the men huddled into their cloaks and waited for their food, Cerdic made his way aft. Eofer had watched the British magister as the ships had cut their way north across a sea as green as any meadow. Alone among his men, the man had barely cast a look towards the ragged coast of Bro Gwereg as it slipped astern, the ramparts of dark rock which turned their face to the sea seemingly holding little attachment to his affections. To a man the Britons had cut their hair short, immediately marking them apart from the Englishmen who surrounded them. Although their garments were of the best quality they were noticeably less flamboyant than those of their hosts, the muted browns, greens and blues brightened only by the red cloak which hung at every man's shoulder and the enamelled broach which held it in place. Their leader was dressed in similar fashion to his men, and Cerdic flashed Eofer a smile as he gained the steering platform and hopped up at his side.

  “We are making good progress,” he said. “This time tomorrow we shall be ashore?”

  It was more a question than a statement of fact, and Cerdic glanced towards Anwyl seeking confirmation. His ship master nodded in agreement. “If this wind blows steadily we should drift down on Afen mouth around dusk, lord,” the man replied.

  “Let us hope that the Durotrige and our new Jutish friends are safely at their ale before we appear then.”

  Cerdic noticed the look of surprise which flashed across Eofer's face at the remark and the magister moved to allay his concerns. “The Durotrige live to the west of my own people, the Belgae.” He paused and smiled again. “The Jutes I think are more familiar to you than they are to me, it's one of the reasons which led me to recruit Engles for this journey. Perhaps we can share what knowledge we possess of our common foe?” Thrush Hemming, Eofer's weorthman, his leading warrior, approached them with platters of bread and cheese. Handing one each to the British leader and his own eorle he dipped his head before returning to his companions. It had been a long day, and both men tore hungrily at the bread as Cerdic continued between mouthfuls. “As I mentioned this morning, I already know something of the exploits of Eofer king's bane and his w
ar-band. Even in these troubled times, campaigns and battles which claim the lives of two kings are rare events.” Cerdic glanced across as he broke the corner from a heel of cheese. “Did they die well?”

  Eofer shrugged. “Ongentheow, the king of Swedes died the death of a hero. My kinsman Hythcyn, the Geat usurper, failed to attain those heights.”

  The British leader nodded, thoughtfully. “How we face death is important, it is the final capitulum in our life story.” The eorle gave him a blank look and Cerdic looked surprised. “Capitulum, it's a Roman term for the division of a book?” Eofer continued to stare at the Briton who finally realised his error. “I am sorry,” he said awkwardly, “I assumed that you would know the Latin tongue. I know that many æthelings do.”

  Eofer pursed his lips. “Knowledge considered appropriate for our princes is not necessarily imparted to the sons of ealdormen.”

  Cerdic grimaced. “It was stupid of me,” he said. “Please accept my heartfelt apologies.” He rallied with a smile. “Let's make sure that our own final capitulum lies many years in the future. Tell me,” he added, “since I clearly know only enough of the customs of the North to enable me to offend good men. What do you know of myself and the situation in my part of Britannia?”

  Eofer dipped his head, acknowledging the British leader's apology, and cleared his throat to speak. “You are the grandson of Uther Pendragon's hearth warrior, Osla big knife, a Saxon, and the son of Arthur's duguth, Elesius.” It was Cerdic's turn to give a blank look and the men shared a laugh as the tables were turned. Eofer flushed, the haughtiness driven from him as he explained. “A duguth is an English term for a senior man in his lord's hearth troop, a doughty warrior. Younger warriors in the war-band are just known as youths until they have proven their worth and reached sixteen winters.”

  Cerdic nodded with a twinkle in his eye, and Eofer felt himself warm to the Briton as he took up the tale. “When Arthur died the people split into two factions. Those of us who wished to work towards a future which included all the people in the island of Britannia, Saxon, Engle and Briton under one leader and one God lost the ensuing war against those who wished to return to the old ways, those which prevailed in the islands before the coming of Rome. Their leader is a man called Natan and they call themselves the combrogi, which just means the people in our tongue. They call everywhere by the old names,” he gave a chuckle, “and nobody knows where they are any longer. This Natan styles himself a chieftain in the old way, even the capitol of the civitas at Venta Belgarum is now known as Cair Guinntguic.” He gave a low sigh. “Order within the civitas is breaking down, it is coming under attack from all sides. The people are in despair and I have been recalled from Bro Gwereg to lead the fightback. Already my supporters have stopped calling the great hill fort at Sorbiodunum, Cair Caradog, and driven away Natan's supporters there.”

  Eofer looked up and nodded his thanks as Hemming handed the pair cups of ale. As Cerdic drank he cut in. “So we are to get you and your men through to the army in Sorbiodunum?”

  Cerdic winced. “Essentially yes, but there is a complication.”

  Eofer tried hard to hide his amusement. There was always a complication when silver needed to be paid to hire swords and ships. The Briton pretended not to notice and pressed on.

  “Natan has settled Jutes in the forts which surround the Soluente. Clausentum, Portus Adurni and Carys on the island we call Vectis. Their ships have closed the entrance to the great bay there, we shall have to beach our own ships further west and follow the River Afen to the hill fort. My friends cannot abandon the fortress and come to our aid or it will fall to the combrogi. It's the obvious route for us to take. If our presence is discovered I expect to have to fight my way through.”

  TWO

  Eofer watched as the rowers swept the sea with gentle strokes, keeping station below the wall of rock as the sun slowly sank in the West. Ahead of them, across a sea turned bronze by the dying sun, lay the great island which Cerdic had called Vectis. A quick glance towards Sæward told the eorle that his steer man shared his anxiety. To be caught, wallowing at the foot of great white cliffs as dusk came on, was the stuff of nightmares. Anwyl stood at the stern post as he studied the movement of the sea with a look of grim determination, as aware as any that the lives of his magister and every man aboard the three English ships depended on his good judgement.

  A quick glance to the West and the Briton reached down and tossed another handful of bladder wrack into the current, and men chewed their lips as the tension mounted. The seaweed spun through the air to land an oar's length from the hull, and the man smiled and turned as the air-filled sacs which lined the fronds floated on the surface and edged the plant eastwards. The tide had finally turned, and the relief among Engle and Briton alike was palpable.

  The sun was now a pyre resting on the sea, the sheer cliffs aflame as Eofer gave the order to pull past the headland and into the bay. He looked across. “Do we cut across the bight or hug the coastline?”

  Anwyl exchanged a look with Cerdic who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Keep inshore. We still have a way to go before we enter Afen mouth. Even with the glow of the sun at our backs we may be seen from the shore or the clifftop on Vectis. If we remain in the shadow of the land we may yet pull through.”

  It was Eofer's turn to exchange a look of concern with his own steer man. The nervousness of the Britons was obvious. Maybe, Eofer thought wryly, he should have asked for payment in gold.

  As the Sæ Wulf cleared the headland, a small bay opened up to landward. The other English ships tucked in their wake as the current began to carry them across its face. Masts had been stepped, sails furled and stowed long before, and the three ships hugged the beach as the long low silhouettes blended into the shadows. Ahead of them, a series of sea stacks marched into the bay, grim and forbidding, a line of misshapen teeth jutting into their path. Far away on the opposite side of the bay matching stacks, their western edges licked orange by the last of the day's dying light, came off the island of Vectis, and Eofer shivered as he imagined the tiny force sliding uncontrollably into the maw of a monster. High above gulls wheeled, the white of their wings points of light, squarking and cawing as they circled their roosts.

  Pulling past the stacks the land fell away and Sæward hauled on the big steering paddle as he edged closer to the land. Anwyl hurried across and Eofer noted again the anxiety in his voice. “You will have to stand out from the land here. There is an inlet up ahead which contains the port of Bol, the main trading place for the Durotrige. The twin spits of land which straddle the entrance are guarded day and night, we will be challenged.

  Oswin, Eofer's youth, chose the moment to utter a verse and his lord winced at both the message and the timing.

  “Then over sea-road exiles arrived.

  Bold spear-men, ignorant of their fate…”

  Eofer cast an anxious look at Cerdic to gauge his reaction to the doom-laden words, and his lip curled into a grimace as the Briton's face paled. “Oswin fancies himself as a scop,” he explained apologetically, “although so far the evidence of his words and timing say otherwise. I owe a debt to his father, but the way he fights I am hoping that an ash shaft will settle the account before too long.”

  Cerdic recovered quickly, and he smiled reassuringly as he sought to make light of the awkward air which had settled over the ship. He raised his voice a notch, speaking clearly so that all of his men could hear their leader's confidence. “It's of no account, your patience with the boy speaks well of your character. You forget that we are Christian men, Eofer. The lord decides the number of our days, not the words of beardless boys.”

  The eorle smiled his thanks at the Briton's handling of the situation and shot the boy a withering stare before raising his eyes to take in the bay which was opening up before them.

  The distance could not have been much more than a couple of miles, three at most. On the far side the land was heavily wooded and they would be swallowed by the gloom. Be
fore they could reach cover though they would have to cross the stretch where the cliffs petered out and the sunlight still shone brightly. They would be visible for miles around, three dark forms attempting to move with stealth. Even the Jutes could not be that blind he mused. “It can't be more than a few miles to this Afen mouth,” he said. “We still have enough sea room to steer inshore and hug the shadows. Isn't it worth the risk?”

  Cerdic had moved aft to support his ship master and he shook his head. “Bol is their main port Eofer, it is heavily guarded. There are always manned ships at the entrance to the pool during the hours of daylight. It would be madness to take the risk when we are so close to our destination.”

  Eofer sucked his teeth as he thought but, in truth, the final decision was not his to make. He turned to Sæward. “Take the straightest line across the bay.” Hopping down from the steering platform he spoke to his men as Sæward moved to the stern post and passed the information to the following ships. “We need to clip this bay, lads. The quicker we can do it, the safer we will be.”

  As the crew bent to their oars, Eofer joined Cerdic at the stern as he scanned the surface of the inlet. Within moments the great curved stem post of the Sæ Wulf had emerged into the full glare of the dying sun, and the rowers redoubled their efforts as they attempted to reach the shadowy shoreline undetected. Eofer watched with mounting disquiet as the silvered wakes of the three ships reflected the last rays of the sun as it lanced across the bay. As he feared, a call came from the man in the bows before they were even half way to safety.

  “Two sail in the East!”

  All eyes turned towards a hook of land which curved into the bay in the distance and there, between the shingle headland and the great hump of Vectis opposite two sails had appeared, shining in the light like new nail heads on a wall.