Fire & Steel

by C. R. May

  Haldor reappeared and walked across to his jarl as the men packed the silver into the panniers which flanked the remounts. He glanced up at the sky as he came and frowned. “Are we staying here tonight lord? This looks like it's getting worse; not the sort of night to be caught in the open.”

  Ubba raised his eyes and squinted away to the West. The sun was down, but the full darkness of the night was still some way off. Haldor was right, it was a good hall. If it had been a little further from the road it would have been the perfect hideaway but it stood hard on, and there was no telling who might arrive in the dark hours. The English were hunting them now and, stung by the audacity of their raid, he doubted that they would rest night or day while they remained at large. He shook his head. “No, we will follow the valley down to that hall we saw beyond the watercourse. It's just that bit further from the road and we will be able to see any riders approach from a good distance away.”

  Disappointed, Haldor glanced up as a powerful gust brought a shoal of leaves sweeping across the paddock. “I doubt that there will be any war-bands out in this, lord.” He grabbed at his groin and leered. “This one is pretty. Even the maidservant is worthy of a tup.”

  Ubba shook his head as he confirmed his decision. “No, we move,” he snapped. “Tell the men to kill the bitches and come outside.” The Dane swung himself up into the saddle and hauled at his reins, guiding his mount back towards the nearby track as he threw a last instruction over his shoulder. “Haldor…”

  The warrior paused and turned. “Yes, lord?”

  “Tell the men to fetch brands from the hearth to light the way, but don't fire the hall. We don't want to find an English shield wall barring our path in the morning.”

  *

  The riders swept along the track as the wind roared through the canopy overhead sending a blizzard of leaves, twigs and smaller branches cascading all around. They pushed on, the spectral light from the brands which each man held aloft marking their progress through the absolute darkness which surrounded them.

  Eofer snatched at his reins and guided his mount around another fallen bough as he reflected on the homecoming which Thunor had provided for them. It was, after all, about as bad as it could be, and he gave a grim smile as he thought of the thunder god. Perhaps he had been listening when he made his comment to Thrush back at the knoll or maybe he was too far away, shepherding Heardred safely home. His sacred grove was not far from Eofer's own hall, he would leave an offering if they all made it safely through.

  The roadway spilled out into a glade and the eorle came to a halt and waited for the others to come up. High above the moon reappeared to bathe the clearing in its watery light before the next storm cloud, its edges rimmed with silver, moved across to veil it once more. Brands hissed and snaked as the rain and wind found them, and Eofer let out a laugh as he saw the excitement writ large on their faces. Soon they were a mob of horsemen, their mounts kicking up muddy clods as they circled, and Eofer cried out above the wind as he did a quick headcount.

  “This must be what it is like to ride the wild hunt with the Allfather.” He shot his weorthman a grin. “Still wish you were cosy, Thrush?”

  A line split Hemming's beard as he beamed in return, his eyes wide with the joy of the moment as he shook his head and the war-band jeered. It was little wonder that Woden chose to ride on nights like this, and Eofer yelled again as a powerful gust carried a heavy crack to their ears from the darkness beyond the circle of light.

  “If it gets much worse we will break our journey at Penda's hall.” A quick glance at the moon told the eorle that the night was already well advanced, he doubted that they would reach home before daybreak and he recognised that it was the sensible thing to do. They had been away as soon as the spring rites had been performed at Eostre, another morning would make little difference. Besides, he reflected with a smile, his father's weorthman always kept a supply of mead for guests and it had been a long ride. Somewhere in the dark an almighty crash told them that a great tree had succumbed to the blow. Eofer cursed. If large trees were beginning to topple they would need to slow their pace even more. The ride had become much worse, Penda's hall really was the sensible choice. He grinned again at the childlike excitement on the faces which ringed their lord. “All set?”

  Torches were thrust into the air and, as the gale reached down to pluck at the flames, the troop filed behind their leader with a throaty roar and spurred their mounts.

  *

  Brecc tapped gently on the door to the bower and flicked up the wooden latch. Entering softly, he paused for a heartbeat to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. To his disappointment the boy was sleeping beside his mother, he may need to quieten him if he awoke. Crossing to the settle, he bent over the sleeping figures and hesitated, unsure how to wake his owner. Realising that physical contact was improper, he took hold of the coverlet and gave it a sharp tug. As the woman stirred he moved back into the pale rectangle of light cast by the doorway to enable her to recognise him for who he was. She saw him and came instantly awake. “Brecc? What is it?”

  The thræl moved forward and, dropping to his knee, lowered his gaze in supplication. “There are lights moving through the Weald lady. Horsemen are on the road, they must be past the brook by now.”

  She nodded that she understood. The wind outside was roaring, buffeting the stout walls of the hall with every gust. Only the mad or those intent on harm would be foolish enough to venture out on such a night. Spear-Danes had been raiding on Harrow all summer and there had been rumours that, emboldened by their successes, they had begun to turn their attentions to the settlements on the mainland itself. Her own brother-in-law had fallen on one such raid, and she steeled herself as she prepared to exact some small measure of revenge before she too fell. The boy awoke and rubbed his eyes. “What is it mother?”

  She reached inside her night clothes and freed a key from the ring which hung there. “Go to the coffer and bring two gar, quickly now.”

  She hesitated and looked back at Brecc. Slaves were forbidden to touch weapons but he looked like a man who had known spear-play in the past. He had been faultlessly loyal all summer, she would take a chance. “Weohstan…” The lad turned his head as he fumbled with the lock. “Fetch three spears.”

  Astrid looked back at her thræl and saw the gratitude on his face. There was no malice in his expression and she relaxed slightly; she knew that she had not misjudged the man. Weohstan hurried back, the bare soles of his feet slapping on the cold wooden boards. Cradling three of the heavy thrusting spears he handed them around. Taking down two shields from the wall to the rear of the bed she handed one to Brecc as she heft her own.

  “Weohstan, fetch your shield.” A knot of emotion gripped her chest and she smiled at the look of pride which illuminated his round face. The blond hair which framed his features were a legacy from her kin but the steely gaze belonged to his father. She set her face and gripped her gar. “Tonight we must all be men.”

  Astrid led them out, past the high table, and down the length of the hall. The benches, the scene of so much merriment and laughter when the men were home, hugged the bare walls. Bereft of their shields and weapons, the bare plaster and posts looked skeletal in the flickering light from the hearth; a body without a soul.

  Reaching the door she paused and turned. Her thyften had accompanied her from her father's hall in Geatland on her marriage, and the old maid hung back in the shadows with a face as pale as the moon. Astrid smiled reassuringly and indicated the door to her bower with a flick of her head. “Editha, if this is a hall burning make your way to Ealdorman Wonred's hall and tell him what has happened here. He will protect you until the master returns.” The handmaid made to protest but Astrid cut her short. “It is not the duty of women to fight,” she pulled a wry smile, “unless you are the daughter of a king.” She smiled again, more warmly this time as the memories of their years together flooded back. The old girl had wet nursed her through her first year and a
ttended her through the highs and lows of her life. If her wyrd was to die here, there was no reason why they should die together. As the thyften bustled off, Astrid's expression hardened once again and she turned to her son. “Weohstan…” The boy looked up, his expression resolute. “You will lead us and make the challenge.” His face softened in gratitude for a heartbeat, before the iron will which she knew so well reasserted itself. “Remember the words which your father taught you. You are the son of an eorle, the grandson of a battle king.”

  She saw that Brecc had lit a brand from the hearth as he passed and she acknowledged his foresight with a nod. Slipping the heavy wooden bar from the door she pulled it inwards.

  Outside the wind still howled in the treetops, but the clouds had been chased away to the East and the open space which lay between the buildings was bathed a pewter grey.

  Weohstan led them through, and mother and son took up position to bar entry to the riders as their thræl fixed the torch into a bracket. The horsemen, war grim in their polished helms, were approaching the paddock beneath a scroll of flame, the light gleaming from steel and gold as the men came on.

  Astrid took her place at her son's right hand as Brecc moved to the left, and together the trio planted their feet four-square as the war-band thundered into the yard. As the wind captured the flames and drove them eastwards, an involuntary gasp escaped Astrid's lips as she recognised the men for who they were. As she lowered her shield the riders drew up in a line facing the hall and Weohstan strode proud of the group. Clashing his spear shaft three times against the rim of his own little shield, the boy cried his challenge.

  “I am Weohstan, son of Eofer king's bane, Hygelac's kin.

  Rider, tell to me now your own lineage and whether your intentions are base or honourable.

  If you seek shelter from the storm you will find a welcome in my father's hall.

  If you carry a hatred for my clan in your heart you will find that we are no strangers to battle play.

  I will not avoid it. Even if I knew myself doomed, I was not born a coward.

  It is better to fight than be burnt inside by men with hate in their hearts.”

  Eofer grasped his helm and lifted it clear of his head, pride at his son's bearing and demeanour shining in his eyes. As her eorle swung himself down to gather the boy in his arms, Spearhafoc slipped an arrow from her quiver and Oswin shot forward with a yelp as he received a sharp jab in the buttock. “That's wordcræft, word-poor.”

  The men of Eofer's hearth troop shared a laugh, all the discomforts of the journey home forgotten as they reached their goal.

  “Four winters old,” she continued as they began to haul themselves, saddle weary, from their mounts, “and already an eorle.”

  NINE

  The riders dug in their heels and took the grindle at a canter. That was the last of the drainage ditches which tapered down to the western bay, and the group settled into a trot as the lowering sun turned the water there to amber. Soon they would be back at Wonred's hunting lodge, and Eofer smiled to himself as he watched his father take the obstruction with the ease of a man far younger in winters.

  The old man was a folctoga now, one of the king's leading advisers in the witan, the wise, a commander of armies. Never one to covet the kingship of his people, the man had risen as high as his ambition had ever stretched. The day that the norns had woven their threads to send Hygelac of Geatland into exile three winters previously had been the spark which propelled his old friend to the position which he now occupied. Seizing the opportunity to place an ally on the throne of the Danes' northern neighbours, King Eomær had supported his cause with an English ship army under the command of the ealdorman. The sciphere had fallen on Geatland the following spring, only to discover that Hygelac's brother, King Hythcyn, was raiding in Swede Land. Following hard on their heels, the English had crushed the army of the Brondings and run Hythcyn's army to ground at a place called Ravenswood. Attacking in the dawn, they had surprised a Swedish relief force under the command of their king, Ongentheow, and in the heavy fighting Ongentheow had fallen to English might. Eofer had dealt Ongentheow, the old battle boar, his death blow. It had been the act which had earned the young Engle the title king's bane and the elevation of his father, Wonred, to the coveted position of one of the folctoga of the English.

  Eofer rode at his father's side, their breath pluming as the chill of the evening descended. Away to the West the salt marshes were beginning to haze as a mist, sparkling like steel in the raking light, rose to veil the shallows.

  It had been a good day. Dozens of birds, Mallard, Teal, Pochard, bounced against the flanks of the horses as they moved and the pair, father and son, each proudly carried his gyrfalcon atop his fist as he rode. Hooded now the birds, magnificent in their silvery plumage, were both from the same brood. A gift to each man from a grateful Hygelac, the birds were almost as large as the eagles which hunted the grasslands and both men carried their charges with ill-concealed pride.

  Eofer felt his father to be content for the first time since he had returned, and he took the opportunity to broach the thorny subject of his brother's disappearance. “Is there still no word of Wulf's fate?”

  Eofer noticed an involuntary grimace cross his father's face at the mention of his youngest son, but he was kin to Eofer, too; he had a right to ask. Wonred ran his free hand through the remains of his hair and sighed. The long locks of his youth were a thing of memory, and Eofer remembered the day when he had laughed along with his brother as the old man had finally given up on the straggly mop and appeared in the hall shorn like a spring lamb. That too had been a good day, and he felt a pang as the face of his brother faded from his mind. Wonred shook his head. “Nothing. Not a peep.”

  Eofer spat. “I need to know the name of the fiend who overcame him if I am to take blodweorth.”

  The old man shook his head and Eofer noticed that he fingered the hilt of his sword as he replied.

  “I have let it be known that I will pay for that information, but nothing has come back to me yet. All I know is what I told you the day you came to my hall.” He turned his face to his son and Eofer was pleased to see a smile form on his father's features. “He died well, Eofer, sword swinging against his king's enemies. The war-band which reached the cliffs above the fight saw Wulf lead the men of his troop against the wicingas. They cut their way through to the dragon ship and Wulf managed to get aboard before the ship floated free of the strand and carried them out to sea. The sun had risen by then to shine directly in the faces of Coelfrith and his men, and the last that they could see was the dawn light glinting on sword play as blades rose and fell and the seamen rowed for deeper water.” Wonred made a fist and reached across to thump his son on the shoulder. “Rest easy, lad. All men know that the king's bane will take vengeance on his brother's slayer.”

  Ahead of them the path curved around the settlement of Framasham, its longhouses radiating away from the open space at the centre in the manner of the westerners. Unlike the halls found throughout the higher Wolds and eastern parts of Engeln, those of the low lying lands of the polder incorporated a space for their livestock within the body of the hall. The animals wintered within these byres or were gathered in the area at the heart of the settlement known as the common where they could be safeguarded against the depredations of wolves or men during the warmer months of the year. As the sky hardened to a blackish-blue in the East, the last of the cattle were being driven between the boundary posts towards their winter lodgings as Eofer spoke again. “At least Heardred seems safely established as king in Geatland, despite the wishes of his mother I hear.”

  Wonred threw him a look. “Women's ambitions don't always match those of their menfolk. Hygd had just lost Hygelac and other kinsmen including her brother to the fighting in Frisland.” He shrugged. “No woman wants to outlive their family; kings tend to live short and violent lives here in the North.” Leaning in towards his son, Wonred glanced behind to ensure that there were no riders w
ithin earshot before he shared the most dramatic news of all. “Hygelac's death was the work of the Allfather.”

  Eofer looked at his father in shock as the fear which he had shared on the beach with Heardred was confirmed. “You know this?”

  Wonred nodded. “He told me himself, the winter he was a wræcca and his brother Hythcyn ruled. Woden came to his hall many winters ago and made a pact with the old fool. He was to ensure that his foster, Beowulf, became the Geatish champion and the king-helm would be his.” He sniffed as if the following statement was self-evident. “The gods are powerful, but fickle all the same, Woden most of all. Show them respect but place your trust in your own sword arm, Eofer. They delight in chaos.”

  Eofer knew that the moment had arrived to broach what he knew would be a difficult subject with his father. He looked across and held the old man’s gaze. “The Allfather has spoken to me also, father.”

  Wonred looked aghast and Eofer could not help but give a short snort of amusement, despite the gravity of the moment. “Don’t worry,” he smiled reassuringly, “the Wanderer has not called at my hall!” The ealdorman’s face remained a mask of concern, and Eofer continued quickly. “Certain things occurred in Britannia this summer which could only be the will of the god. Trust me father,” he pleaded, “soon the Allfather will send a sign and I ask for your support in the witan when that time comes.”

  They passed the place where the cattle had crossed the track, hoof prints and sludgy pats of dung marking their passage, and swung to the East. The land rose slowly here and, rounding a spur, the twin storeys of the hunting lodge itself came into view beneath its hood of thatch. The horses plodded on as thoughts turned to good food, good ale and the companionship of the hearth. Suddenly their warm meanderings were interrupted by the blast of a horn and, following the sound, the men watched as the guards on the palisade pointed their spears. A shape detached itself from the shadow of the paling, cantering down the track towards them, the horn blast and the quality of the man's mount and clothing marking him out as a messenger of the king.