by C. R. May
Eofer looked on as Cerdic glanced anxiously towards his ship master. “Will we make the Afen?”
Anwyl shook his head, his expression grim. “They are already closer to the bay there, and they have the wind at their backs. Despite the tidal flow they should make it long before we do, lord.”
Sæward cut in. “If they know we are heading there.” They all turned his way and he shrugged. “Unless they know who these ships carry we could be anyone, we have no flags flying, not even sails set.” He scratched as his beard as he thought. “If we have been betrayed there would be more than a brace of sail heading in this direction, we could be those Durotrige guard ships you mentioned for all they know.”
Cerdic beamed. “He's right, we are still in their waters. The Afen forms the border between our civitas, they would be encroaching on our territory.” He turned to Anwyl. “Keep the shingle banks between us and you can warn them off. We outnumber them, and I doubt that Jutes will be able to tell one group of Britons from another.”
Anwyl nodded as Cerdic plucked at Eofer's sleeve. “Come, lets prepare for the worst. If it does come to a fight we will need a quick and decisive victory before the light goes completely. We cannot let them take news of our arrival back to the mainland if they discover our true identity.”
As the pair moved into the waist of the ship, Eofer stole a glance to the East. The ships were closer now and he could see that, although they were clearly ships of the North, they were smaller and therefore less heavily manned. They were obviously guard ships come to sniff at these warships which had appeared out of the setting sun. A robust response from the heavily armed men aboard the three English ships should see them off. Between them he could see the area which Cerdic had called the shingle banks. The water was whitened and choppier there as the sea plucked at the underwater ridge and his spirits rose. No ship master in his right mind would hazard his ship in such a place in fading light, and he settled in among the British warriors as Anwyl hailed them.
“Why are you in Durotrige waters, pagan?”
The answering voice drifted back across the waves, the accent confirming that these men were some of the new Jutish settlers. “It is our duty to safeguard the coast, Christ man.”
The man was about to continue but Anwyl cut him short with a snarl. “Wrong, pagan. Your duty is to safeguard the coast of Belgica. Scamper back to your Belgic bitch, puppy. Before we decide to redden the boards of your ships with your blood and add them to our fleet.”
Cerdic's spear men rose from the thwarts and glared across the waves, and Eofer chuckled to himself as he recognised the Jutish leader backtrack as he attempted to retreat without losing face.
“Keep to your side of the border or there will be a heavy price to pay, wealas,” he spat, and Eofer snorted as he saw the men surrounding him stiffen at the word. It was the term which all northern folk used for foreigners and carried more than a hint of scorn. Anwyl held a steady course as the Jutes sheered off and spilled the wind from their sails. Moving with the current but against the easterly wind now, they watched with relief as the oars slid proud of the Jutish hulls and began to stroke their way back to their own waters.
Cerdic flashed his helmsman a smile as the warriors exchanged grins around him. “Expertly handled, old friend. But remind me never to let you handle any negotiations which might call for more subtle diplomatic skills,” he laughed.
The bay ended abruptly as the coastline turned back on itself. Ahead, a hazy white line marked the point where yet another sandy spit ran parallel to the sea. Cerdic clapped Eofer on the shoulder as Sæward hauled at the steer board and headed in. “Afen mouth,” he smiled. “We have survived the sea crossing and the portents of Oswin's poetry at least.”
“That will have to do,” Eofer said. “We can't haul them any further in.”
The three ships were tied up stem to stern in a side channel of the Afen, as far from the main watercourse as possible. With their masts shipped their profile was as low as it could be, but not for the first time Eofer wished that he had his own ship, Fælcen, with them. The graceful sweep of the stem and stern of the snaca still stood proud of the banks of rushes and eelgrass which covered the salt marsh on the Belgic side of the bay; but time snapped at their heels like a hungry wolf. Every moment spent at the ships ate into the hours of darkness, and they had upward of thirty miles to cover before they reached the safety of the hill fort at Sorbiodunum. The snake ships carried forty rowers apiece and, although they were as sleek and deadly as their namesake, the long hulls had been needed to transport the British magister and his large war-band across the sea. Eofer's own ship, Fælcen, was of a type which the English called a scegth, and he missed her keenly. Half the size of the big snacas and drawing barely a hand's breadth of water, the little ship at twenty oars a side was ideal for raiding far into the river systems of Britannia, Gaul and Frisia, and Eofer reflected ruefully that he would have been able to complete the journey to Sorbiodunum in a few hours if she were here.
Sæward read his thoughts and made a suggestion as the warriors formed into column on the higher ground. “We could load them with stones, lord. Let them settle deeper.”
Eofer shook his head. “We haven't the time, we need to be away. Besides,” he continued as he glanced about them, “can you see any?”
The ship master's teeth showed white in the moonlight as he ran his gaze across the banks of thick glutinous mud which surrounded them. “No, lord,” he admitted with a snort, “not to hand.”
Eofer leaned in and dropped his voice to a murmur. “If this goes badly we may need to get away quickly. We have no idea how much support this Cerdic has, it may even be a trap. I will leave Edwin, Bassa and Beornwulf with you, that will give you enough spears to take care of any curious locals. Anything more organised and you will have to fire the ships and follow on. If we are not back by the evening of the second day take the Sæ Wulf and we will meet up at Cnobheresburg. You will still have to fire the other ships,” he shrugged, “but that can't be helped. I will have to pay compensation to the owners, but that's the chance we all take when we sail in these waters.”
Sæward nodded grimly and they clasped forearms without another word. Movement from the bank caught the ship master's eye and he glanced across as a figure hurried across to them.
“My father wishes to know if there is a problem?”
Eofer changed his mood quickly and smiled brightly as he shook his head. “No Cynric, I am coming now. We have done the best we can to hide the ships.”
The British warriors had taken up the vanguard of the column as agreed, with Cerdic and his son safely ensconced half way along the steel clad line. The remaining English duguth of Eofer's hearth troop, Hemming, Imma Gold, Osbeorn and Octa were stood waiting for their eorle to lead them forward, with the youth standing tall behind their shields as they covered the rear. Beyond them, the crews of the other English ships formed into their divisions and waited impatiently for the off.
Imma, the flaxen hair which had lent him his name shining brightly from beneath the plates of his helm, winked mischievously as Eofer gained the column and the eorle let out a snort. The big man would be itching for a fight, he knew. Whether Cerdic and Cynric felt the same way, he had his doubts.
Cerdic looked back, and Eofer raised his arm to confirm that all were set. As the golden draco banner of the house of Uther was raised again over British soil and the breeze whispered across the salt marsh to unfurl its long tail, the column heft their shields and took their first paces towards the distant hill fort.
The moon was climbing higher as the night wore on, its silver glow slanting down to light the waters of the Afen as the column trudged warily along its eastern bank. The river divided to either side of a large island, and the burnt out remains of a small settlement there told of the conflict which was ongoing as the rival tribes wrestled for control of the area. The valley sides steepened as they moved steadily inland, and the wild wood which capped the pass closed in on t
hem a little more with every mile trod. Soon the road was hard pressed by trees on the eastern side and the meandering waters of the river to the West. Although the roadway itself was wide and well constructed, a sombre air of abandonment hung over the vale and the warriors, Briton and Engle alike, gripped their weapons a little tighter as they searched the gloom for any sign of opposition.
As the first grey light lit the eastern sky and the moon paled above them, the men watched as a herd of deer emerged from the tree line on the far side of the vale. Led by a large hart, the heavy fronds of its antlers spearing the air as it rolled its neck and snorted defiance, the females watched impassively as the armed group ghosted through their domain. A light mist had risen to fill the hollows with a milky wisp, tendrils snaking down to the river as the light began to chase the shadows away.
Suddenly the hart snapped its head to the North, and the hinds which had grouped in his wake skittered nervously. Eofer shared a look of concern with Thrush Hemming who marched at his side, and soon their fears were confirmed as the shadowy figure of a British scout came rushing back along the road towards the column. Within moments the man was reporting to the British magister, and they watched as Cynric left his father's side and trotted back along the column towards them, concern writ large on his features. As the Belgic warriors instinctively began to check their equipment and grip their shields a little tighter, Cynric reached the English eorle.
“You had better come up, Eofer,” he panted. “There is an army blocking our path.”
THREE
Eofer strode purposefully forward as the men of his troop rechecked buckles and fastenings. Untying the peace bands from his own sword, Blood-Worm, he greeted Cerdic with a smile. “We have company, I understand. What do we know?”
The British leader was nodding earnestly as the scout completed his report on the armed force which had appeared ahead, and Eofer felt a kick of optimism as he watched a smile spread slowly across Cerdic's face. Finally he clapped the man on the shoulder and turned to the eorle.
“It's a small force, most likely the men from the fort at Clausentum. Here,” he said, smoothing a patch of earth with his foot, “this is what I believe the situation to be.”
Eofer watched as Cerdic hastily sketched out a map of the area with the point of his spear.
“This is the valley of the Afen and we are here.” He stabbed out to left and right of the line in the soil. “These are the two great woodlands which border it and here is where we left your ships at the coast. This bay,” he stretched across and outlined a great oval, “leads up from the Soluente almost as far as the capitol at Venta, and Clausentum at the head of the bay guards the mouth of the River Icene and the roadway which lead directly to it. There is another good road which skirts the woodland and leads directly to the ford up ahead where they have set up their line of defence.” He looked up and flashed a smile. “It is known locally as Cerdicsford, after the victor in a battle which was fought there a decade or so ago. It's my guess that our Jutish friends from last night reported our presence to their masters at the fort, and they in turn realised that your ships very likely carried myself and Cynric.” He raised a brow in question. “What would you have done in their place?”
Eofer replied straight away. “Send word to the main army at Venta and then rush across and try to delay you here until they come up and finish you off.”
Cerdic nodded. “It's the obvious thing to do, the only thing really,” he agreed. “I can't fault their bravery. Their cause may be misguided but they have my respect.”
Eofer interrupted. “If you know this fort, you should know how many men usually garrison it.”
“Cedwyn just confirmed that we are facing a hundred or so, that would be the full compliment, so with my two hundred, plus the hundred and...” Cerdic let the sentence hang in the air and wrinkled his brow.
“One hundred and twenty-five, without the four left at the ships,” Eofer answered.
“So we have the advantage in numbers and quality. But,” Cerdic added with a grimace, “it is an excellent defensive position. I should know,” he snorted, “I defended it in the previous battle. There is a pinch point there where the woods come almost down to the river. It can't be outflanked from the West because a smaller river joins the Afen there so you would need to cross the Afen, this other river, the Nootr, and then recross the Afen to get to grips with the enemy.” Cerdic shook his head. “Even if we attempted it, it would take time, and time is something we don't have. There could be a thousand warriors riding here as we speak, only God knows how close they are. We must punch through these men blocking our path or we shall be overwhelmed.”
Eofer sucked at his teeth as he thought. Suddenly an idea came to him. “There are a hundred men blocking our route ahead, and these men came from the fort at Clausentum.”
Cerdic nodded.
Eofer raised an eyebrow as he asked a question. “Tell me again how these men got here so quickly.”
The British leader looked uncomprehending for a moment before a smile lit up his face. “Do it for me,” he said excitedly. “Quickly!”
Eofer crouched in the shadows and ran his eyes across the scene before him. Hemming stood at his shoulder as the pair noted the number and position of the guards. The sweet smell of horse came to them as the animals grazed contentedly on the lush summer grasses which grew at the roadside, despite the noise of fighting which carried up from the vale beyond the tree line. The woodland bowed to the North there and the road fell away before it turned the corner and was lost from sight. The lads of Eofer's youth were fighting there alongside the other English crews and Cerdic's Britons, and he sent a plea to the gods to watch over them until he could enter the fray.
Hemming turned his head and murmured to the eorle. “I can't see any more than those four, lord.”
Eofer gave a small nod of agreement. “No, neither can I Thrush. Let's get on with it.”
He estimated that the four young Britons who had been left to tend the horses were about ten or eleven winters. Their boyish excitement as they peered in the direction of the fighting, clearly told the experienced English warriors that here were four lads who had yet to endure the special terror which accompanied the push of shields as armies came together. A terror which could twist the guts and liquefy the innards as ably as any spear thrust. He would let them live if he could.
He drew his sword with a flourish and glanced at the men of his duguth. “Fierce faces lads. Let them go unless they resist. They can do us little harm.”
Eofer stalked from cover and glowered beneath the boar brow rim of his helm as he led the four warriors towards the backs of the gesticulating boys. Caught up in their excitement, the Britons were unaware of the danger until Eofer bellowed out as he closed on the group.
“Go!”
The boys spun around and Eofer almost laughed as he saw the excited smiles drain from their faces as their jaws gaped and a look of horror came over them. The larger of the boys was the first to recover and he began to lower his spear. The other boys looked to him, and Eofer knew that he had found the leader of the group. The delay had allowed him to close, and he brought Blood-Worm across with a contemptuous sweep. As the spear shaft was sent spinning from the boy's hands he reversed the blade and struck him on the side of his head with the flat of the blade.
“This is your last chance boy, go now.”
Despite the unlikelihood that any of the lads spoke Eofer's tongue, the instruction should have been obvious enough to even the dimmest of them. He jerked his head to the east to make it as clear as he could and barked out again.
“RUN!”
The spell which had held them in place finally broke and the Britons dropped their weapons and fled. Imma and Octa had already moved across to cut the ropes which the riders had used to hobble their mounts before they left for the valley, and Eofer and Hemming sheathed their swords and drew their own knives as they moved across to help.
Hemming looked across to the
East and shook his head. “Should have killed them lord, when we had the chance.”
Eofer looked and saw that the Britons had run as far as the crest of the nearest rise and he frowned. If more riders arrived from that direction they would be well placed to help them with directions and the latest news.
“It's too late now. Anyway,” he spat, “we will be long gone by the time that their main army arrives.”
The horses were ready, and they chose the largest animals with the finest saddles and most ornate bridles, knowing from experience that these would belong to the most important warriors among the British force. Like their owners, these horses too would be the pick of the herds and the other animals would instinctively follow their lead.
Eofer and Hemming guided their mounts towards the sound of fighting as Imma led Osbeorn and Octa to the rear of the herd. Eofer twisted in the saddle as he checked that the three were in position and, as Imma raised his arm to signal that they were set, the thegn dug in his heels and whooped for joy. The great war horse bounded forward, and within a heartbeat the roadway reverberated to the thunder of hooves as the herd gathered speed and dipped towards the valley floor.
Eofer tugged at his reins as the power of his own great mount threatened to outpace the following horses and he reached across himself to draw Blood-Worm with a flourish. He sensed Thrush Hemming draw level on his own war horse, and Eofer risked a look as they rounded the wooded outlier and the valley floor came into view. His duguth was crouched low over the neck of his mount, his own sword swinging in wide arcs above him as the horse put back its ears and charged on. Clear of the trees, the roadway curved to the left and then straightened as it hugged the tree line and swept down to the crossing place, half a mile ahead.
The sun had fully cleared the hills to the East, the slanting light driving a great shadow before them like an angry cloud. Eofer glanced up as the harsh note of a war horn cut the air, watching as a gap opened up between the rival forces as Cerdic's men withdrew to safety. A moment later the first of the enemy warriors became aware of the headlong charge which was bearing down upon their flank.
