by C. R. May
“Eofer, I am in your debt once again. I never thought that I would laugh again after this day.”
The Engle nodded in the direction of a nearby tree stump, bone pale in the moonlight, its bole worn smooth by countless tides. Too large and twisted for the pyre, it had escaped the axes of the tired men. “Are you up to telling the tale?”
Heardred stifled a yawn but nodded. The left side of his face was encrusted with dried blood and his shield arm had warded so many blows that there was barely a paler patch among the angry purple bruises, but the Geat knew that the story of that day needed to be told. “I need to unburden myself,” he placed a hand on Eofer's shoulder as they made their way across, “and I can think of no better victim than my childhood friend, the husband of my only sister.”
Thrush Hemming appeared from the gloom and handed each man a horn of ale, melting away with a nod and a grin.
Heardred took a pull and indicated the receding figure with his horn. “Why Thrush?”
Eofer circled his face with his hand. “The freckles, he looks like the bird.”
Both men lowered themselves onto the stump with a sigh. It had been a hard day for them both.
Clear of the spit, the Geat drakkar had hoist their sails in an instant, leaving the Frankish ships floundering on the coast. The big sheets had billowed and the sleek warships had shot free from the trap. The Fælcen had skimmed the waves as Sæward brought her within hailing distance and Eofer had been surprised and delighted to recognise the grinning face of his kinsman as the Geat crew called and cheered. Relieved of the need to row, the exhausted men had still found the strength to acclaim their rescuers, and the scegth had passed through the dragon ships accompanied by the rhythmic beat of ash spears on linden boards.
Eofer drank again and was the first to break the silence. “This was the perfect place to beach the ships. Have you used it before?”
Heardred swallowed noisily and cast his eyes about the island. The moon was edging above the dunes to the South, painting the narrow strand with its milky light and turning the sea beyond, calm now after the fury of the storm, into beaten silver. He shook his head. “My cousin told me it was here. He uses it on his forays across to Britannia.”
Eofer remembered the Geat champion and threw his friend a sidelong glance. If the king had fallen in battle, the man would be a rival for the vacant kingship. “Did he escape?”
Heardred shook his head. “He was never there. He was sent with gifts to assure the Saxons of our friendship in case they felt threatened by the raid on their border. He was to join up later if he could, but he had to escort the Danish warloca, Unferth, to the midsummer blot at the Irminsul first.” Eofer looked surprised and the ætheling shrugged. “It would seem that the Allfather still has plans for my kinsman.”
Eofer realised the importance of the revelation immediately. If the war god was scheming, Heardred could be sailing home to his death. He placed a hand on Heardred's arm and gave him an earnest stare. Despite the dangers, kin were kin.
“You have my sword if you ask, or a haven at my hall.” He gave the Geat what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “If old one-eye comes calling, I'll spit in it!”
Heardred smirked. “I will face my wyrd. If Beowulf has beaten me home, I doubt that he will take the king-helm even if it is offered. We talked about this when we were wræcca together in Swede Land and he promised me his support.” He paused and nodded. “I know that as exiles it was an easy declaration to make, but I know my cousin as well as any man. He may be a famous monster killer, but he harbours no ambition to take on the responsibilities of kingship, the lack of freedom would drive him mad.”
Eofer was unconvinced. “Words are a fine thing, but once that kingly grim-helm is brought out any man would be tempted. If he feels that it is the Allfather's will...”
The eorle let the statement hang in the air, but Heardred shook his head and smiled. “If it's Woden's will, I have done enough to sup in his hall. I will join my father at his ale bench and await the end of days.”
“You are sure that Hygelac is dead then? He may have escaped.”
Heardred pulled a wry smile. “Unless his body can make its way home alone,” he snorted, “about as sure as I could ever be. The Franks were taunting us with my father's head impaled on the end of a spear for most of the chase!”
The Geat glanced at his ale as he swilled it around before sinking the dregs in one. Eofer pointed to his drinking vessel and Thrush Hemming, attentive as ever, loped across with a full barrel as his eorle attempted to move the subject on to happier days.
“Tell me about the raid. We were still in Anglia when you landed among the Hetware and all seemed well. After that we were in the South and news was sparse.”
Hemming refilled the horns and placed the barrel at their feet. Heardred shot him a smile of thanks as he began to tell the story of Hygelac's Raid.
“They were completely unprepared for us at first. We hit the northern coast and defeated the local forces before splitting the army. We moved south, skirting the Ælmere while the ships, under half crews, shadowed us. The Frisian king, Ida, never concentrated his forces but just committed them piecemeal so we just swept them aside.” He took a long draught from his horn and grinned. “It couldn't have been easier. Once we put the inland sea behind us we fortified a base at a place called Dorestada and used it to raid further south. The great River Rin flows there as it approaches its estuary on the German Sea. Using it we could raid with our ships deep into Frankland, that and the other rivers there, the Woh, Masa, Sceald.” He shrugged. “It was perfect. The countryside was rich and fairly groaning with food. We spent the best part of the summer there and never saw so much as a hostile cow, never mind an enemy spear.”
Eofer shook his head in wonder. The southerners had a reputation for easy living among the people of the North, but he knew from his experience in Britannia that the people were tough, good spear men. Their leaders however were callow fools, always putting personal gain before the good of their folk. It appeared that the same had happened to the Franks. Maybe it was the Christ god, he reflected. Wherever he was worshipped the poor grew poorer and the rich, richer. Eofer came back as his kinsman concluded his tale.
“The days started to shorten and men wanted away with their spoils. With every day's passing you could sense the feeling grow a little more. Eventually Hygelac decided that the raid was over. I took the fleet down the Rin and the king was to follow on with the men who remained with him.” Heardred glanced up and pulled a weary smile. “We knew that we were taking a chance, dividing the army, but the ships were overloaded as it was. It was late in summer and the river was at its lowest ebb, it would only take a few ships to get stranded in a shallow and block the channel and we would all have been in a vulnerable position.” He shrugged. “Maybe they were watching us, but I think that it was just wyrd, the way that it is. After a summer of gods-luck, ours gave out at the moment of most danger. My father and his men were obviously overtaken by an army from the south and the next thing that I know the estuary of the Sceald is spewing forth dragon ships and galleys. Heavily laden on a lee coastline with a rising swell, short of men...” He shrugged again. “I don't need to tell you what it was like. Only the full onset of the storm and superior seamanship saved those that managed to get away.”
A hand gently shook his shoulder. Eofer forced his lids apart and sighed wearily as he attempted to focus on the figure crouched over him. Imma Gold was there; the big duguth's teeth flashed red in the firelight. “The Golden Mares are back in the East lord, Treachery snapping at their heels.”
Eofer took the cup. Sipping, he fought against the desire to retch. Against his will, he screwed up his face as he forced out what would have to pass for a witty reply. He didn't feel very witty, but it was expected. “Ask Shining Mane to pull the sun in a circle for a while. Maybe the wolf will get dizzy.”
Imma chuckled dutifully, his golden hair falling to frame his face as he looked down at the suff
ering form of his eorle. Eofer took another sip and rolled from his cloak. Ambling over to the surf he relieved himself with a sigh. There was something deeply satisfying about the sound of water meeting water.
The English were a solid block a little along the beach and Eofer took up a brand from the watch fire and crossed to the place where he knew that Heardred lay rolled in his own cloak and wondered. His kinsman had woken yesterday as an ætheling, does he do so this day as a king? He nudged Heardred with his foot rather than lean over him with the flame, aware that a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on him in the darkness. They at least regarded their lord as the rightful king of Geatland, and the Engle knew that a sudden move could well prove to be his last, kin or no.
Eofer knelt at his cousin's side and nudged his shoulder with the cup. “Brother, the dawn is near.”
Heardred nodded without opening his eyes, and a hand reached out from his cloak. Taking the cup he took a sip, inhaled deeply and rolled from his bedding. The Geats rose from the ground with a clatter of arms as the first lightening showed in the East. Heardred jerked his head towards the dark outlines of his ships, dispatching men hither and yon as they prepared to depart, and Eofer watched in admiration as the weary and battle-worn here, the raiding army of the previous day was replaced by a purposeful brotherhood of warriors.
The anchorage had been well chosen. Steeply sloping, the ships could be drawn up to the shore with little danger of stranding by the outgoing tide, and already men were back aboard preparing the vessels for sea. As others carefully raked through the remains of the bale-fire, sifting the ashes of their companions and placing them carefully into earthenware containers for the journey home to kith and kin, Eofer caught up with Heardred as the Geat shed his grime encrusted clothing and shot him a look. “Coming in?”
Eofer grinned and began to strip off as Rannulf, Heardred's own weorthman, replaced his lord's soiled clothing with clean items from the ship. The sky was lightening in furrows, bands of washed out lilac in a rinse of grey, with just the solid point of light which was the morning star remaining to shine like a distant beacon. They would soon be away. The ætheling ducked beneath the surface and emerged a moment later, shaking his hair to spray his friend with a laugh. The years rolled away and with them the responsibilities of their adult life, with just the nagging concern which all naked men feel when standing chest deep in murky water to spoil the moment. The shallows were unexpectedly warm and both men felt quickly reinvigorated as the cares of the previous day sloughed off them with the grime.
Eofer looked at Heardred earnestly as the Geat sipped seawater and worked the brine around his teeth with a finger. “The offer of my sword still holds, kinsman, Blood-Worm is yours. My father would supply an army to bolster your claim, you only need to say the word.”
Heardred squirted out the contents of his mouth. “I know, brother. Don't think that I am ungrateful or that your friendship will ever be forgotten, but my uncle, Hythcyn, was put on the throne with the aid of a Bronding army and look how that turned out, war, wræcscip and the death of kings.” He shook his head. “You think that Woden deserted my father to put Beowulf on the gift-stool of the Geats and you may be right, but he is not the only god who schemes on Middle-earth.”
Heardred turned and waded ashore. As both men dressed, the last of their warriors were clambering aboard the ships and preparing to haul the anchors. Away to the South the twin figures of Finn and Æsc had left their vantage point and were hurrying back along the beach. As the last of the Geats returned to the ships, carrying the vessels containing the still warm ashes of their dead reverently before them, the friends embraced and Heardred flashed a grin. “Even if Beowulf is Woden's favourite, I have the support of old red beard.” He winked as he turned to go and threw a parting comment. “Who else but Thunor could send a storm to drive my kinsman from the gods know where in my moment of greatest need.” He laughed as he recalled the events of the previous day. “A tiny ship emerges from a wall as black as jet, and a girl and three bowmen drive off the fiend and rescue us from being driven ashore.” Heardred fixed the eorle with a steady look. “If that's not the work of the thunderer, I don't know what is.”
EIGHT
A whoop of joy cut the air, and the group laughed as the lad put spur to horse and cantered across the neck of land. One by one his friends followed suit, and Eofer exchanged an almost paternal look of amusement with the men of his duguth.
They had arrived back at the great promontory which the English called Strand the previous evening. Peeling off from the Geatish fleet as they passed the welcome sight of Hwælness, Eofer had edged into the treacherous bay of the Husem. As the wind had risen to whip the shallows into froth, Eofer had kept the withies hard against his steerbord side as he ran the scegth through the maze of channels and creeks, running the Fælcen ashore as a pale, lowering Sun, threw long shadows to the East.
The ships of the returning fleet had dribbled home in ones and twos over the course of the previous day. Battered by the storm the snaca and their crews had all but given up the little warship for lost, and Eofer and his crew had basked in the joyful acclamation of their countrymen as they swept through the anchorage.
Thrush Hemming tapped the barrel and passed around the cups as they rode. Charging each in turn, they waited until the horses set foot on the mainland and their eorle made the cry.
“Wæs Hæl!”
The duguth raised their cups and thundered out the reply.
“Drinc Hæl!”
The men laughed and drained their cups, tossing them aside as Hemming passed the barrel around. It was a tradition among them that they greet their land with the pledge on their return. This year it was heartfelt. They had had the ear of the gods at the spring sacrifice and all of the troop had returned to the motherland as the world turned slowly from green to russet and the harvest was stacked, despite the best efforts of the Jutes and Britons to whittle their number.
Salt marsh fringed the dune speckled shoreline, and the men exchanged a look as a flight of cranes, the grey mass of adults punctuated by the yellowish brown of that summer's brood, passed over the windblown acres of needlemarsh and cordgrass. Soon the birds would leave for the South as men hunkered down to see out the dark days of winter and made their plans for the spring.
Lines of smoke curled from the roofs of Husem to be snatched away by the autumn blow. The town which bore the name of the great bay nestled in the middle distance, whitewashed walls and darker thatch clustered behind its rickety jetties and boathouses, but their destination lay further inland.
Sheep gave way to cattle and the first villages appeared as the land rose slowly towards the distant solidity of the Wolds, now a darker smudge on the skyline.
A small knoll stood hard on to the roadway, its rough grasses sawing as the wind began to freshen, and Eofer edged his mount aside and walked it to the crest. Clouds the colour of lead were gathering in the West as the next storm front approached, and the eorle took in the vista as the world slowly turned grey.
“Are we going to push on or wait this out, lord? We could be cosy inside Eappa's hall before she hits.”
Eofer glanced across at Hemming who had appeared at his side and grinned. Tall and powerfully built, his weorthman instinctively returned the smile and raised his brow as he awaited his lord's decision.
The eorle turned the head of his mount back to the waiting group, casting a final look at the waters of the Husem as the horse picked its way down from the rise. The surface was growing darker by the moment as the clouds rushed in to extinguish the sun, the boats outside the town frantic at their moorings. He called across to the others. “We will eat now while it is dry and then push on.” He shrugged. “It is only a little rain. How bad can it be?”
*
Ubba finally gave up on using his fingernail and plucked a straw from the roof thatch. Working it between his teeth he smiled in triumph as he finally worried the strand of pork free. Across the hall a woman's cry was cut shor
t as one of the men backhanded her and frogmarched her across to the table. As the raider splayed her legs with a kick, his jarl watched absent-mindedly as he hoist her skirts and began to tug at his belt.
A crash came from the bower, and Ubba smiled again as he recognised the familiar sound made by silver falling on wooden boards. Haldor poked his head around the doorway and grinned. “Found it!”
Free now of his tormentor, Ubba took another bite of the pork leg. “You would think that at least one woman would hide her treasure somewhere other than the roof of her bedchamber.”
Haldor snorted and disappeared back into the shadows. The Dane took a last look around the hall and ducked back outside. The wind had continued to grow in strength as they had ransacked the place. Skeletal shadows swept this way and that against a sky the colour of iron as each gust shook the treetops. Darkness was almost upon them, and Ubba rested his back against the barn as he reflected with satisfaction on the course of his latest foray.
Rounding Fyn, the great island which the English called Harrow, his ship had taken the fjord up to the Jutish town known as The Crossing. Arrangements had been set in place there with the local jarl, like most in those parts no friend of the English, to exchange the chest of silver lashed securely amidships for horses and supplies. The remaining crew would double back and proscribe a great sweep, back around Daneland, meeting up with their jarl at the next full moon near the remains of a hall which they had burned the previous year, a few miles to the east of the English settlement of Suthworthig. That would give them a full two weeks to burn and plunder the length of Engeln, time enough to humiliate King Eomær and bring honour and renown to his own king, Hrothgar. The corners of the jarl's mouth turned up in a smile as he thought of the reputation which the attack would bring him among his peers. The rafters of Heorot would think that the Grendel had returned from the mere to shake their joints once again, as Ubba's Raid was acclaimed and toasted from the mead benches.
