by C. R. May
The men shuffled their feet nervously, exchanging sheepish looks until Imma Gold shook his head and threw a look of pity around the assembled warriors. “I will go first. Wyrd decides the days left to you, not god stones.”
They strained their ears as the duguth took the pendant and gave the column a sharp tap but no sound came. Imma shrugged and shot them a grin. “I'm not spooky. Who's next?”
One by one the men came forward, and the reluctance to volunteer receded as it became plain that none of the men possessed what the girl had called 'the gift'. Finally only Eofer remained and, confident now that he would not cause the stone to ring, the eorle took the iron shank and struck the upright squarely.
Eofer glanced back across his shoulder and cried out to his banner man as the dyke came into view. “Keep that herebeacn high Hræfen. I have ridden far too far to end the journey impaled on the point of an English spear.”
Back in familiar territory, the men of the eorle's war-band exchanged smiles and happy banter as they grew nearer to the great earthwork of fleama, its high ramparts bringing back memories of distant Sorbiodunum to the travel-weary column. As faces began to appear along the palisade which ran the length of the dyke and the great wooden doors were hauled inward in welcome, Eofer's mind ran back through the journey which they had just undertaken. It had taken them three days to wend their way along the great chalk spine which carried the ancient path called the Iceni Hill Way, and he chuckled at the memory of the first night. They had pitched up at another of the hill forts which seemed to litter the countryside in the southern part of the island as the sun sat low on the horizon. The bright glow in the west had hidden their identity for long enough to enable them to enter the fort before the small force there could close the gates to them, and they had spent a safe and comfortable night among the party of Saxons who had been tasked with defending the outpost by their Atrebatic overlords. Eofer snorted with amusement as he recalled the wariness of the garrison that evening as the Engle cavorted around them. They had had the look, as Hemming had described them full of beery cheer, 'of mice caught by a party of cats', knowing that at any moment the captors could tire of the game and the claws would slide from their sheaths. Eager to have them on their way, the Saxons had promised to show the English the great white horse which had been carved into the hillside below the camp as it caught the dawn sunlight and, despite their doubts, the figure had proven to be a thing of wonder.
The vistas from the highest points of the chalky hills had been impressive, and Eofer had come to realise that he must be among the very first of the English to see so deeply into the heart of the new lands. If he had harboured any doubts before, he was certain now that this island of rolling hills and trackless woodlands held the future for his people.
The thegn responsible for the men at the portal came forward as the horsemen approached, and Eofer flashed a grin and called a greeting as the tall Englishman before him removed his helm and cradled it in his arm. “Long shanca,” he laughed. “Did they send your ugly face here to scare the wealas away?” Eofer slipped from his saddle, walking to greet his old friend with a smile. They shared an embrace and he saw that the men lining the palisade were grinning happily as they parted.
“Eadweard long shanca,” he laughed, “the terror of the Britons. Who did you upset to get sent here?”
Eadweard had fought in the war in which Eofer had killed the Swedish king, Ongentheow, earning the nickname king's bane. It was the same campaign which had resulted in Eofer's father-in-law taking the Geatish king helm. To his surprise his friend's expression became sombre.
“A lot has happened since you sailed south in the spring, Eofer. The British have been raiding all along the frontier. They have burned Grantebrycge and harried almost as far as Theodford itself.” As Eofer's mouth fell open in shock, Eadweard indicated the earthwork with a jerk of his head. “I am holding a forward position here at the fleama ditch while practically the rest of the able-bodied men available in Anglia are busy building what men are already calling the miceldic, the great ditch, six miles further up the way.”
Eofer squinted across to the West. There, a half dozen miles away, the sunlight sparkled on the nearest reaches of the great waste of the Reaping. A home to trolls, sprites, marsh goblins and the barbarous Britons known as the Gyrwe it was the perfect place to anchor a defensive ditch, but the eorle found that the need irked him like an ill-fitting shirt and his promise to Cerdic began to tug at his conscience.
A gleam entered Eadweard's eye as he looked across to the great column of horses and men which filled the Great South Road. “Your men look like they could use a drink or two. They will be pleased to discover that we have just been supplied. Come,” he said, clapping Eofer on the shoulder, “I will slaughter an ox and we will mark your safe return with a feast. It will give my lads a break from peering down the road looking for British war-bands.”
Eofer accepted gratefully, and soon the meadow in the lee of the earthwork rang with the sound of men glad to be home. As the great carcass of an ox sizzled and spat above the flames, Eadweard sank another horn of ale and shook his head sadly. “It's no good, king's bane, the time is coming when we need to decide whether we are to live in the old country or the new. We have too few warriors to defend our lands here and guard the homeland. The German Sea is too broad to enable one to come to the aid of the other if they come under attack.” He pointed to the edge of the great woodlands which lay to the East. “On the other side of that the Wulfings are settling the coastal heathland between the Gipping and the Aeldu and threatening to push both northwards and south towards Gippeswic itself. Even the Wealas are becoming over bold.” He spat in disgust. “I never thought that such a time would come, but unless King Eomær sends more warriors here...” He paused and held the eorle with his gaze to add emphasis to his words. “I am not the only one thinking of returning to my lands at home, Eofer, rather than skulk behind earthen walls. If that’s the only choice available to us, Anglia will have to be abandoned.”
The sea spray hung in the air as the bows rose again, a thousand droplets shimmering like pearls in the morning light. Eofer braced himself, his back resting in the curve of the stern, thrilling to the sight of the little ship as she breasted another wave before switching his gaze outboard to take in the remainder of the English fleet. Twenty ships this year would make the journey back to the motherland of the English, each ship with its cargo of warriors, hardened fighters who were desperately needed to defend the new lands, and Eofer's mind drifted back across the events of the previous week.
The summer was drawing on, the harvest in full swing, as they had rowed the Fælcen into mid stream and put the walls of Theodford behind them. It would still be another month or so before the apples were ripe enough to pick and he would be home long before then, ready to help gather in his own crop from the orchard which stood beside the brook. Other than the Briton, Eofer had been the only one among them who had caused the great stones to ring, and Spearhafoc had stuck to his side, doe-eyed with wonder. It had been, she had assured him, a sign from the gods of the old people that the Englishman had a great part to play in the future of the island. Eofer had assumed at first that they were confirming his decision to join Cerdic’s quest to unite the Britons, but the meeting with Eadweard had confirmed to him that it had been the Allfather and his son who had constructed the great monument after all. He was sure now that his wyrd was to help settle his own people in the new lands, even if that meant abandoning the motherland itself. Tiring of Spearhafoc’s adulation, Eofer had packed the girl off to the ealdorman's guda, 'to help you learn the ways of our gods'. At first he had thought to leave without her, but she had proven to be a popular addition to the hearth troop and her prowess with the bow had saved her from that fate.
No word had reached the ealdorman at the town of the fate of Sæward and his youth and Eofer had begun to reluctantly accept that they were lost. The ship owners had been delighted to accept war horses in compensati
on for their lost vessels, and the men who had manned them had been sent on their way with purses groaning with silver and great tales to recount as they gathered about the hall fires and the winter nights drew in. It was treasure well spent, Eofer knew. Men would flock to his banner if he ever called again.
The snake ships of the homeward bound fleet had trickled away singly and in pairs from the western settlements as the leaves began to lose their summer sheen. Deep laden after the raiding season, the larger ships were forced to take the waters of the River Udsos north through the wild lands of the Reaping before sailing around the great sweep of the Anglian coast and steering a course for the South. Of a shallower draft, the Fælcen had followed the same river eastwards towards its headwaters, before taking the River Wahenhe directly to the East coast. The river spilled out into the great bay which sheltered beneath the walls of the old Roman fort the English called Cnobheresburg, and it was here that the fleet had assembled for the crossing to Engeln.
The sun was lower in the southern sky, the slanting light painting the crests of the waves the colour of silver as the long days of summer drained away. Eofer thought back on the conversations which he had had within the settlement at Theodford and later, when they had called at the burh of Bunoncga-haye. Sited on higher land where the Wahenhe took a great bow to the North, Bonna, the thegn who had lent his name to the fortress at the neck of the peninsula, had worried the eorle with tales of encroaching Wulfings, Saxons and even Swæfe. It had added to the general feeling of unease which he had sensed among the beleaguered settlers, and as the water meadows and woodlands of the interior had drawn back to become the salt marsh and reed beds of the coastal strip, it had strengthened his resolve to press his father, an ealdorman and trusted retainer, to bring the matter to the king's urgent attention when next they met. He had seen the interior of Britannia and he was sure now in his own mind that the future of a vibrant and proud people such as the English lay there. It would be madness to let their hold on such a land slip away without a fight.
Sæward's cry brought the eorle's thoughts back to the present as he pointed away to the South and exchanged a grin with his lord. A longship, the wolf's head pennant of the Wulfings flying proudly from its mast top, had chosen prudence over duty and was edging further inshore as the English fleet bore down upon it, their own dragon banners teased out to the East in a cat's paw of wind. Eofer had found the duguth safely ensconced within the stone walls of Cnobheresburg and, despite the fact that it had not entered their heads to send word of their return onward to Theodford, all had been quickly forgotten as the steersman and his youth told the tale of their escape and heard the story of the fighting at Cerdicsford for the first time.
As the ships of the fleet came abreast the estuary of the Gipping they turned together and put their prows to the sea. Eofer took a last look at the low dark hills which backed the shoreline there and smiled with satisfaction. It had been a good year. He had prospered and enhanced his reputation; soon he would be riding the path which led to his hall. Already he could picture Astrid at the door, little Weohstan running to greet his father. A quick trip across the cold waters of the German Sea and he would be there. The army of his kinsman, King Hygelac, was raiding in the lands of the Franks and Frisians opposite and Eofer toyed with the idea of seeking them out en-route but discounted it. The season was well advanced and the best pickings would already be safely stowed in Geatish hulls. It had been the talk of Anglia and many men had left to try their sword arm, despite the actions of the Britons on the frontier.
The sun shone steadily, the light airs matched his mood and he relaxed as the Fælcen ploughed the sail road. The Allfather had flicked back the curtain which hid the future from the eyes of men, offering him a glimpse of the path ahead for his people and the part he must play in it. The weather was perfect for the crossing, a lazy passage and he would be home before the new moon waned.
SIX
The thegn scanned the horizon and chewed his lip. It didn't look good. It didn't look good at all.
Sæward wiped his hands on the seat of his trews and took a firmer grip on the steer bord. “Look at it move!”
Away to the South, a boiling rampart of darkness was bearing down on the ships of the English fleet, and the pair watched as the steersmen instinctively hauled at their own big blades and fanned out. They would need all the sea room they could get, and soon. The storm was little more than a mile or so distant now, moving quickly, the leading edge pulsing as lightning bolts flickered with silent menace.
The sea was already coming alive and the Fælcen began to saw as white caps showed alongside, creamy waves slapping against the strakes of the sleek longship as they shot by.
The men exchanged a look, Sæward spoke; “Half way?”
Eofer risked a glance to the South and was horrified to discover that the storm front had already gobbled up half the distance to them. He shook his head, crying out against the force of the freshening wind as he began to make his way down the ship. “A third, any more and we will be lucky if we only lose the sail. If the mast goes over the side...”
The crew had gathered amidships, and they wrenched their faces away from the wall of death as their eorle approached.
He would need the strongest, most experienced men at the oars if they were to ride this one out. Eofer snapped out his orders. “Duguth, you row. Lash your oar to the tholepin and keep us from broaching.” He turned to the expectant faces of the younger warriors. “Youth, you bail.”
Rounding on the two dark haired lads, he stabbed out a finger. “Crawa, Hræfen, lower the spar two-thirds and square it off. Reef the sail to a third, then I want you to stand by the sheets. Keep your eyes on the sail. If it looks like it is about to blow out forget pulling the pins, just use your knife to cut them.” He flashed them a smile of encouragement. “Better to go two sheets to the wind than swim home.”
The twins gave a nervous laugh and scampered off to their task as Eofer cast a look of longing at the twin wash strakes lying snugly on the cross trees amidships. Fixed along the gunwale they were used to raise the freeboard in heavy seas but, casting a look beyond the sweep of the stern, Eofer could see that it was already too late to peg them into place. The storm was upon them.
The crew looked up as a dark hand reached out to smother the sun and a spray of raindrops, as large and heavy as peas, swept across to freckle the deck.
Eofer hurried back to the steering platform, ready to throw his weight alongside the steersman. A last glance outboard and he gasped at the terrible beauty as the English ships, islands of colour and life in a vista of purple and black, were swallowed by the monster.
In the blink of an eye the Fælcen was engulfed. Wind and wave searched out the smallest chink in their defences and found one as the power of the first roller nudged the stern aside. It was only a fraction but it was enough, and the following wave smashed into the tall stern post like a shield strike, the ship recoiling from the blow and offering up a glimpse of her flank to the onrushing madness. As the Fælcen began to broach, Eofer threw himself bodily into Sæward and desperately added his weight to the push. Both men grimaced with effort and fear as they stared down at the shredded waves which threatened to swamp them. The steerbord sheer strake was kissing the sea, they were a heartbeat from the end as she began to respond and drag herself back to an even keel.
Before the ship could right herself the next wave shovelled the stern, thrusting it skyward as the bows disappeared in a mantle of spray, but she was a well-found ship and she lived up to her name, lithe, fearless; a hunter. Rising again from the swell, she shook the water from her timbers and forged ahead. As the great hooked beak of the prow crept around, Eofer scanned the deck and the breath caught in his throat as he saw that the boy, Hræfen, was missing from his place at the steer bord side. As his eyes moved out to search the wind-torn surface of the sea for any sign of the lad, the arm of Imma Gold reached out from his place at the benches and casually plucked a dark mass from the
waters, depositing it in the scuppers like a bundle of sodden rags. As the big warrior bent to his oar, the eorle watched with pride as the bundle came back to life and the boy dragged himself back across to his station by the steer bord sheet. Kissing the lashing which had saved his life, Hræfen resumed his watch on the tortured sail.
Up for'ard, Eofer saw that Spearhafoc had taken up a position in the bows. Balanced perfectly she was a young woman of many talents, and he was pleased with the qualities which she had added to his war-band. Cocky, deadly with the bow, the youth had soaked up the teachings of the guda in Theodford like parched soil after a summer storm.
The tawny feathers of the hen Sparrowhawk corkscrewed from her hair as the gale snatched away her invocation to Ran, mother of the waves, Spae-Wife of the sea god Gymir. Bracing herself in the very upturn of the prow as her daughters hurtled past only feet away, Eofer saw silver flash as an offering to the goddess, and he smiled as he lipread the last words of an invocation:
…the stormy breast-driven wave;
With red stain running out of Ran’s white mouth.
The gale set up an unearthly howl in the rigging, fire bolts danced at the masthead but, with the ship running steadily before the gale, Eofer knew that the worst moments were already behind them. Clinker built in good English oak from the Wolds near his hall, the hull flexed and sang as the little scegth was driven before the white caps like the pure-blood she was.
He relaxed his grip on the steer bord and let Sæward run her on. They shared a look, and each man knew just how close they had come to joining the legions of those lost at sea, spending an eternity in Gymir’s wet-cold hall.
