by C. R. May
Sæward leaned across, and they shared a laugh as the steersman cried above the noise. “That was fun. Shall we do it again?”
Eofer cupped his hand and cocked his head as he strained to hear. Still the wind snatched the words away and hurled them to the East. The worst of the storm had left them as quickly as it had arrived but the sky remained a broth of purple and black, almost as if it had been bruised by the violence which had gone before, the sea choppy. Visibility was still poor and he had sent the nimblest of the youth up the mast to see if any other English ships were within sight as the yard was hauled and the sail shaken out.
He cast a questioning look at Sæward but the big steersman only shrugged, laughter dancing in his eyes. Eofer sighed and hopped from the steering platform, tossing a remark to the rows of smiling faces as he picked his way through a tangle of limbs.
“If you want something done well...” he threw out as he skipped from thwart to thwart. A chorus erupted from the upturned faces, and the eorle joined in the laughter which followed as the answer to his question came back in a yell. “Do it yourself!”
Reaching the mast he gripped the lower peg and scurried aloft. Away from the shelter of the deck the wind redoubled and Eofer clung on tightly as he climbed. The sail was as full as a fat man's shirt, the shroud lines sang and, at the masthead, the white dragon pennant writhed then snapped taut with each new gust.
The boy, Bassa, looked fearful as he came up alongside him but Eofer shot him a grin and a heartening wink. Clear of the sail, he rested his arm on top of the spar and called above the last of the gale. “What?”
Bassa hugged the mast and pointed away to the East. “There are a large number of ships over there, sailing north.”
Eofer blinked to clear his vision as the Fælcen crested a wave, searching hard. The horizon was blanketed in mist and spray, but he saw nothing in the moments before the ship lowered her prow and descended into the next trough. “You are sure?”
Bassa gave a firm nod. “Yes, lord, it looked like two groups. A larger group chasing a smaller one.”
The Fælcen lifted her bows, hauling herself up the side of the next grey wall, and Eofer squinted into the gloom again. Still nothing. If they were his countrymen they were not where he had expected them to be and he hesitated to approach a lee shore in this weather. Only the gods could know just how far the storm had carried them, and the coast of Frisland could not be far off in the murk. The eorle had a vision of the islands and sand bars which girdled the coast there and shuddered. “How many?”
The boy threw him a cheeky smile. “I have young eyes, lord. I am not a wizard!”
Eofer suppressed a smile and stared at the lad. Admonished, the boy cleared his throat as the smirk dissolved and fell away. “Half a dozen or so in the lead group, maybe a score or more in the chasing pack. I can't say any closer than that. I only got a quick glimpse before it all closed in again.” He looked away momentarily as the wind snatched the breath from him. Taking a gulp of air he turned back. “There's another thing, lord.”
Eofer shifted his weight as he awaited the revelation. The masthead was not the most comfortable place to be at the best of times and this was far from that. “Well, if you don't tell me quickly,” he cried as the wind snatched at his words, “you will be beating me back to the deck, head first!”
Bassa paled, all the cheekiness of earlier driven from him. “I couldn't make out the flags, but it looked like the ships at the rear carried crosses at the masthead.”
Eofer let out a sigh. “Franks? Could they be chasing our ships?” He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face in a vain attempt at clearing away some of the salty spray which still fogged the air and stared back to the East. Still nothing. Looking back, he opened his mouth to question the youth again but Bassa's face was deadpan. “I am sure, lord.”
Eofer smiled at the boy's confidence and clapped him on the shoulder. Bassa's eorle was Eofer, king's bane. Men across the northern world knew the tale of his great deed. It took nerve to stand your ground against a man of reputation. “Very well, hawk eye, we shall go and have a look. Call down to one of the men below as soon as they reappear.” He smiled again. “It's unseemly for an eorle to scamper around at the beck and call of a youth!”
Eofer let himself slide back down to the deck, throwing a few words to the expectant faces as he returned to the steering platform. The wind was blowing steadily from the south-west. They would soon close with the ships and discover the identity of the mysterious flotilla. “It looks like the Franks may be hunting some of our ships. Get the baling finished and ready yourselves for a fight, just to be sure.”
Eofer hopped up onto the steering platform and opened his mouth to speak, but snorted as he saw that Sæward already had the handle of the steer bord hauled hard into his chest. The stern post began to swing to the north as the ship responded and, as if to light a beacon at their destination, a dagger of golden light stabbed down from a break in the clouds, their rims edged with gold.
The storm was lessening with every passing moment as its front rolled away to the north-east and soon Beornwulf was hurrying back to his lord with the latest report from the masthead. The young warrior, his face flushed with obvious disappointment, waited for his eorle to look his way and gave his report. “Bassa can see them clearly now. There are twenty-five ships in pursuit of four large warships. The main group are definitely Frankish but those in front are not our ships, lord. They fly the white boar at their masthead.”
Eofer exchanged a look of surprise with his steersman. “Geats? I thought that they would be back in their forests by now.”
Sæward gave voice to his thoughts. “Either the Christians have caught a few stragglers or King Hygelac's raid has met with a disaster.”
Both men shared a look of concern. The Geat king was Eofer's kinsman, the grandfather of his son. He had led a great host into the lands of the Frisians and Salian Franks early that summer, burning and plundering the rich lands at will. Merchants from the South had lived well on the English coast of Britannia that year as thegns and warriors alike plied them with ale to hear the latest news of the fighting there. Many English ships had slipped from the mouths of the eastern rivers, the Udsos, the Blithe, looking for opportunities to flex their sword arm and earn renown, and the weakness which had resulted in Anglia had encouraged the Britons in their attacks around Grantebrycge. It was always thus, Eofer sighed, but he had to admit that he had been as culpable as any that summer. It seemed that every man on the Fælcen had a friend or kinsman there.
Sæward spoke again. “Shall I come about, lord? We don't want to blunder into the middle of a sea fight alone.”
Eofer scanned the sky and pulled at his beard as he thought. The sky away to the South was clearing to a softer blue, marbled white, but the clouds were still moving on at a pace.
He shook his head. “We have the weather with us. Take us closer and stand off when their hulls appear above the horizon.” He sniffed and a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “I have an idea which may save these Geats from spending the rest of their days being buggered in a monastery.”
Eofer left the steering platform and made his way back along the thwarts between the rowers. Unlike the larger ships, the small scegth were not flush decked and any trip made fore or aft on the vessel involved negotiating either a series of hurdles or becoming an expert at keeping your footing. Eofer insisted that all of his men use the latter method. It was the best teacher of the art of balance and poise that he knew, invaluable in a fight. Reaching the mast he threw an arm around it and called out to the leader of the small knot of bowmen. “Grimma!”
Grimma and his men had taken passage on the Fælcen at Cnobheresburg, just before they had left the fortress for home. Not having the agility of a scegthman he drew amused smiles from the men of Eofer's hearth troop as he swung a leg and vaulted each thwart in turn to reach their eorle. “Lord?”
“Who is your worst bowman?”
Indi
gnant, Grimma pulled himself upright. “I don't have bad bowmen, lord.”
Eofer chuckled. “No, of course, I will put the question another way. Which of you three has the weakest draw?”
The bowman gasped and began to splutter a reply before Eofer cut him short. “There is a reason I am asking. It's important.”
Grimma was clearly wrestling with his conscience as both bowmen were within hearing distance. He leaned in with a compromise solution. Lowering his voice to a whisper he indicated the bows with a jerk of his head. “The lassie is good with a bow, lord. She is not as strong as the lads here, but she is as accurate as any.”
Eofer watched the bronze plate of the weather vane as the cockscomb straightened and snaked towards the Frankish ships. The sealskin tassels told the steersman the moment that the wind shifted but today it blew steadily. In truth it was unnecessary. The final blows from the storm were whipping the waves into white caps, long tendrils of spindrift echoing the actions of their man-made brethren above. Spearhafoc turned her head to him, twin fingers curled around the bowstring, a shaft nocked. “I think that I can reach them from here.”
He nodded as her companions craned to watch the strike. “Try to hit the steersman,” he smiled. “It always gets their attention.”
She rolled her eyes at her eorle, and her fellow hearth warriors laughed as she offered him the bow. Eofer laughed along with the others, but he felt that he was beginning to get the measure of the girl now. She would strain every sinew of her body to hit the man now that the challenge had been made. The leading ships were well within the range of Grimma and his bowmen, and the Fælcen banked to bæcbord as Sæward put the helm about to run parallel with their foe.
They had arrived not a moment too soon. The Frankish ships, although heavy and unwieldy, had weathered the storm well, their bulk lending them a stability which was denied the sleeker longships of their Geatish prey. Eofer had seen immediately that the Frankish commander meant to trap the Geats in a bay a little further along the coast. Standing off from the nearby string of islands he had cleverly bided his time as he patiently waited for the wind and tide to dash his enemy against the shore. Denied sea room, the Geats were unable to use their sails to tack so close to a lee shore and the oarsmen were clearly tiring fast. A long low promontory, little more than a sandy bar, stood proud of the coastline a mile ahead, a dirty white fringe marking the breakers which pummelled the shore there. Ribs and masts littered the strand like the sun bleached bone-cages of sea monsters. The Geats were rowing to their doom and they would know it.
Eofer stood back and gave Spearhafoc room as she raised the bow and drew the bowstring to her cheek. Glancing across to Grimma he recognised the look of approval on the experienced bowman's face as the young woman calmed her breathing, bringing it into harmony with the rise and fall of the ship. Spearhafoc's eyes flitted between her target and the coil and curl of spume as the wind teased it from the wave crests and her body relaxed as she made the final adjustments to her posture. Suddenly she released with a grunt, and the heads of the men turned together to follow the flight of the arrow. The missile sped away, its slender shaft aimed far to the rear of the Frankish ship, but as the men watched in eager anticipation the gusting wind slowly pushed its head around to the East.
Eofer was amused to see that hundreds of Franks were mirroring their actions, their hands shading their eyes as they followed the flight of the dart. The point dipped as the shaft sped towards its target, now obvious to all as the steersman on the leading Frankish ship, and they held a collective breath as they began to realise just how good the shot was. Driven on by the powerful following wind, the arrow bore down to flash between the steersman and the heavy stern post just feet to his rear. It had been a remarkable shot, and the men of the troop whooped with joy at the skill of their new friend.
Eofer joined the laughter and turned to congratulate the woman but stopped as he saw her spit in disgust and nock another shaft. As Spearhafoc drew the bow and sighted he called for quiet, and a hush descended on the men as they waited for the next arrow to fly. A gull seemed to appear from nowhere, and the men laughed nervously as it hung suspended in the line of sight. But Spearhavoc's concentration was absolute and the moment that the bird sailed upwards with a harsh parting cry the arrow sped away.
Eofer looked back across to the Franks and saw that men were attempting to attract the attention of the steersman to the threat but the man, his eyes fixed on the Geat ships ahead, seemed oblivious. The wind had increased again, and the arrow was already into its final death dive as Eofer looked back at the target. Shifting his gaze to the Frank, Eofer gripped the gunwale in excitement and waited for the dart to arrive. Across the waves men were pointing to the sky and calling out a warning but, just as the steersman seemed to become aware of the approaching danger the arrow flashed down to take him in the neck.
The men on the Fælcen yelled in triumph as the Frank clutched at the shaft, staggering to one side before falling forward and becoming hidden from view by the curve of the hull. As the men of the troop cheered and called, their eorle nodded to Grimma and within moments the three bowmen had nocked and loosed. The arrows flew true and spattered the steering platform of the disabled ship as the Franks desperately attempted to bring her head back on course. It was enough and, driven to steerbord by the wind and the running seas, the leading ship swung out of line and smashed into the vessel to landward. Suddenly the lee shore beckoned the ships of the Frankish fleet and the English watched joyfully as the pursuit, seemingly so unstoppable only moments before, descended into chaos as hulls collided and yards fouled bringing masts and rigging crashing down onto the decks below.
As the larger part of the fleet sought to extricate themselves from the crush, a ship pointed her bows seaward and oars slipped proud of the hull to stroke the sea as the outraged Franks attempted to overtake their tormentor. It was now that the foresight of their thegn became apparent to the troop as the unwieldy ship, wide of beam and heavy with men and equipment, struggled to make headway against the choppy swell. A volley of arrows arced into the air and sped towards the men of the Fælcen but, loosed into the teeth of the wind storm, they quickly faltered and put their heads into the sea.
Waves slapped the hull, splashing inboard as Sæward pushed away the handle of the steering board and shook the scegth free of the coast. The lithe, leaf shaped hull of the English ship skimmed the surface and sped away from its pursuer as Bassa and Beornwulf hauled on the braces, resetting the yard to capture the wind. The Fælcen put the coastline and its mayhem astern as the men of the troop jeered and called at the pathetic efforts of the Frankish bowmen to reach them with their shafts.
To the North, the Geat ships had grasped their lifeline and were rowing with all the vigour of the saved to escape the trap, their long oars glistening as they rose and fell like the wings of a mighty bird. Eofer exchanged a smile with Spearhafoc.
“Let's go and see who we have delivered from wyrd. Big ships like those are bound to carry a lot of ale!”
SEVEN
The sun was a memory when the time came to touch brand to kindling. A moon, full and bright in the southern sky, glossed the cap of the pyre as it reflected from the steel of mail shirts, helms and swords.
Ringed by flames, the bier had drained the last reserves of strength from the exhausted Geats but no man, with wound or without, had shirked the duty as they had scoured the strand and stripped the ships for fuel.
Heardred said his piece and thrust the first torch into the base of the shield ringed pile. Soaked with fats and oils from the stores aboard the ships, the flames flickered and grew as the Geat leader withdrew into the shadows and dozens of brands arced across to join his own. Drawing aside, the warriors exposed the flames to the full force of the onshore breeze and the smouldering stack transformed itself into a roaring, living thing. As the flames sawed and rose higher with each gust, Heardred Hygelacson turned and led his men away.
A voice rose into the night
air from the watching English and the Geats stopped almost to a man and glared.
“The fire crackled.
The wind blew.
The Geats went to Valhall with the smoke…”
Eofer whirled around and spat through gritted teeth. “Oswin, not now! They think that you are making fun of them.” His mind raced and he could see the rest of his troop wincing and shifting uncomfortably. Looking at the faces of the Geats, only the fact that they owed their lives to the men before them and their own state of weariness was keeping the stern faced men from drawing their weapons. An idea came to him and he grabbed at it. “Get yourself down to the dunes and relieve Porta. Tell Rand that Cæd will relieve him soon.” He jerked his head and Oswin hurried off, the look on his eorle's face alone being enough to tell him that speed was important. As the tension of the moment drained away and the warriors of both nations began to disperse, Heardred crossed the beach. “Who was that, kinsman?”
Eofer pulled a pained expression. “Oswin word-poor, one of my youth.”
To Eofer's relief, the Geat laughed. “Word-poor, I'll say! I thought that it was another example of your unfathomable English humour.”
Relieved that no offence had been taken at such an emotionally charged moment, Eofer added with a chuckle. “We called him Oswin shit-poet when he first began to spout a verse or two. At least he is improving!”
They shared a laugh and Heardred indicated the rapidly receding figure with his head. “Any good?”
Eofer shook his head. “Spear fodder,” he sniffed. “I owe his father, but the truth is the lad seems to be as thick as a horse's prick.”
They laughed again and the Geat held the Englishman by the shoulders and fixed him with his gaze. In the gloom the Geatish warriors exchanged tired smiles as they gathered with their friends and cleared a space on the strand. Their lord was laughing. The world was righting itself after the chaos and they could begin to look to the future.
