by C. R. May
Folk were already arriving at the outer gate as traders and their customers queued patiently for admittance to the compound within. “You picked the wrong day to arrive, lord,” the guard explained as they walked. “Wodensdæg is market day in Sleyswic, people come from all over.”
The guards manning the gateway nodded them through and ushered the multitude to one side as Eofer and his men approached. Raised eyebrows and haughty looks followed them from the more patient queuers, but nothing was said as they passed beneath the shadow of the gatehouse and spilled out into the compound beyond. Up ahead, the burh of King Eomær perched upon its knoll. The inner defences, stone faced and palisaded, mirrored those of the larger compound which surrounded it with, silhouetted against the skyline, the massive timbered hall of the king. Shining in its lime washed splendour beneath a mantle of golden thatch, the hall dominated the town and the dark waters of the Sley beyond from behind its ring of brightly coloured war flags.
Despite the early hour dozens of stallholders had already set up, and the sellers of foods and ale were doing a roaring trade. A smith had erected a small forge, and the dark red flames had become a warm place to gather as folk met old friends and exchanged their news. An escaped piglet zigzagged, squealing through the crowd as it made a desperate bid to escape its fate. The warriors laughed at the comical efforts of the sausage maker and his assistant to overtake the beast before it could make the gate, and Eofer wondered at the absurdity of the crowd, yelling the pig on as they munched happily on one of its litter mates.
The track rose towards the gatehouse, and soon they were being nodded through. The warriors here, Eofer noticed, were older and generally larger than those in the outer compound. The quality of their mail and weapons marked the men as gesithas, the men of the king's personal hearth troop. Chosen from among the bravest and hardiest of the duguth, these were the king's close companions, the men who ate, drank and slept in his hall and formed his personal bodyguard in battle. Broad chested and full bearded to a man, the gesithas were not to be lightly crossed.
A gnarled old veteran detached himself from the shadow of the hall and made his way down to them as they reached the staircase. “Eofer king's bane, my name is Ælfhelm, I am the new reeve here. Welcome back to Eorthdraca.” The reeve indicated that they follow him towards the great double doors which led into the magnificent structure which was Earthdragon, the hall of the king, as they began to remove their weapons. “Did you bring your scegth? Fælcen is it?” Eofer nodded and shot the reeve a grin. “We left our youth manhandling her across the carrying place and rode here at first light.” Ælfhelm chuckled. “You'll have been spending some time in the Barley Mow then. Great tits that Ena, and a dab hand with the poker!” They all shared an easy laugh as they mounted the steps. “What happened to the old reeve, Æscwine?” Eofer asked. Ælfhelm smiled genially. “He is still here, you will meet him inside. He still has duties to perform but he finds it difficult to hear what is being said most of the time.” He shrugged and leaned across. “Between you and me he is as deaf as that post, but the king still accords him honour for the service which he has given to his family. He fought alongside King Eomær's grandfather you know, Offa the Great.”
The twin gilt doors of Eorthdraca loomed above them, and Eofer studied the designs as the reeve announced their arrival by crashing down on the wooden boards with the heel of his staff. Chased into their faces were momentous events in the making of the English nation. The bairn, Sceaf son of Woden, pitching up on the shore of the Beltic Sea to found the tribe. The warrior king, Wihtlæg, crushing Amleth and his Jutes. Offa's defeat of the Myrging champion at Monster Gate and his son, Engeltheow's war of conquest which followed. His own father had fought in the war as a youth and he had grown up listening, spellbound, as the warriors recalled the fighting.
The great doors were drawn inward, and the group composed themselves as their shadows cut the plane of light which appeared on the hall floor. Ælfhelm took a step inside the hall and Eofer and his men held their position at the threshold as the reeve's deep voice boomed into the void.
“Eofer Wonreding has answered the war-sword's call, lord.”
As his eyes became accustomed to the gloomy interior, Eofer noticed two warriors were stood, their crossed spears barring entrance to the party, just ahead of the reeve. Ælfhelm gave them a curt nod in response to an unseen signal and the men stood to one side as the retainer moved forward. Eofer followed and the familiar smell of the hall, wood smoke, ale, leather and men, engulfed him. It was a good smell, a homely smell, and Eofer and the men of his hearth troop took in the features of the king's hall as they paced the oaken boards of Eorthdraca in the reeve's wake. Twin columns marched ahead, their great girth cunningly chased as dragons and men fought duels which spiralled up to the great hammer beams of the roof above. Picked out in gold and red, the death struggles appeared to writhe and flail in the reflected light of the hearth which flamed between them. The eorle's eyes were drawn beyond the stout figure of Ælfhelm to the dais which stood at the head of the hall and the figure upon it. King Eomær sat on his gift stool, resplendent in a pool of light which lanced in from a side wind hole high in the eaves. The king was dressed in a knee length tunic and hose of purest white, cuffed and hemmed in gold, which gleamed like a star amid the deep shadows of early morning. Eofer, despite the solemnity of the occasion, stifled a snort as a piece of advice which his father had given him years ago popped into his consciousness like a bat in the night. 'If you want to impress Eofer, dress in the lightest colour clothing that you can. It shows that you don't have to scrabble about in muck and shit all day like other folk!' The king's garb was completed by a cloak of deepest blue, edged gold, pinned at the shoulder by a delicately worked gold and garnet encrusted square headed brooch. King Eomær's ancestral battle sword, Stedefæst, hung at the king's side as twin spear men, gesithas dressed for war, flanked their lord. The pale light of the northern morning shone dully on the wall to the King's rear where the great war flag of the English hung proudly. His battle shield, its red leather facing studded with golden dragons, ravens and the eye of Woden stood to one side alongside the silvery gleam of the king's ringed byrnie and helm.
Ælfhelm drew to one side as the procession came within twenty paces of the king, and the hubbub which had greeted their arrival from the warrior lined benches stilled as Eofer and the men of his troop knelt and lowered their gaze. Eofer gripped the war-sword and held it forward to show that he had answered its call.
King Eomær spoke. “Welcome to Eorthdraca, Eofer king's bane. Approach me, speak with your king.”
Eofer rose and walked forward, and the king motioned that he remain on his feet with a smile. Closer now, Eofer was gratified to see that the trials of the kingdom over the past few years had not had any discernible effect on the appearance of his lord. Tall and stockily built, Eomær shared the handsome features of his clan. Square of jaw, a smattering of freckles lay upon a face which was more round than oval in shape, open and welcoming beneath a crop of hair the colour of summer hay.
The king took the war-sword and motioned to a retainer who hurried forward with two golden cups. “Drink with me, Eofer,” the king said, smiling again as he tapped Eofer's cup with a dull metallic chink. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Wet, lord,” he replied with a snort. “If it had rained much harder we could have sailed here across the Wolds and saved a day.”
The king laughed easily. “You have heard about the symbel?” Eofer said that he had and the king continued cryptically. “That is one of the reasons for it.” The king shook his head dismissively as he saw the eorle's incomprehension. “All will be revealed in good time. The symbel is to take place next week at the Winterfylleth, but before that there is a man who I would like you to meet. I will replace those nags that Eadmund loaned you at the Old Ford with a fine war horse and we will ride to meet him after we have eaten.”
The arrangements made the king wrinkled his nose, pulling a
face as he glanced across to his steward. “Ælfhelm,” he pleaded. “Can you discover what that bloody smell is.”
The horses picked their way south, the sun, low in the sky, a blinding orb of white as it crept slowly along a ridge of darkened trees. “Perhaps we should have left earlier,” the king quipped as he lowered his eyes against the glare.
“Have we far to travel, lord?” Eofer said.
King Eomær shook his head. “Only a short distance. You will have to forgive the discomfort, but it will be worth your while.”
They had left Eorthdraca as soon as the horses had been saddled and made ready for the journey. King Eomær had donned his war gear as his gesithas had armed, and within the hour the party had joined The Oxen Way and turned south. Eofer, to his surprise and delight, had been asked to ride at the head of the column with the king and, despite the pride he felt, the eorle could not but help wondering who they were travelling to meet. The men of Eofer's hearth troop had been shown honour by being asked to ride immediately to the rear of the pair. It was an unusual display of trust and regard for the king to let an armed group come between himself and his gesithas, and Eofer had chuckled as he compared the looks of pride which shone from the faces of his war-band and contrasted them with the glum looks of the king's men, sensing their discomfort in every movement.
At the end of the armed group, barely visible as an occasionally glimpsed nodding head, Osbeorn brought up the rear of the column. Identified as the source of the miasma which had followed the group like a faithful wet dog, the king had banished the duguth there for fouling the air in the king's hall. Eofer could not help but notice that Osbeorn's standing had immediately risen among the king's men; Ena's eggs were evidently popular, even if the consequences were less so.
As the sun approached its high point, the outriders which had ridden ahead of the column took a track which led away to the East. Soon they were among a press of oak and elm, the ancient woodland which had witnessed the arrival of Woden and his war-band when the earth was young and the land had first been settled by Ingvæone folk. The wind sighed through the treetops as the party wend its way through a steady rain of crisp russet leaves which banked against the sides of the path and collected in the hollows. Fording a brook, King Eomær led the column out onto the side of a grassy ridge. Below them lay a sheltered valley. At its head stood a fine hunting lodge which looked out across the fields to the iron grey waters of Suthworthig Bay beyond.
A hawk hung in the air as it quartered the ground, and the pair watched it with admiration. The king spoke, excitement dancing in his eyes. “A kestrel!” He turned his head to Eofer. “Which hawk do you use to hunt?”
“My father and I were gifted gyrfalcons by our kinsman, King Hygelac, for our support during his exile.”
Eomær nodded, clearly impressed. “Fine birds, it was a noble gift, manfully earned. You brought honour on myself and the English folk by your actions in Geatland and Swede Land that summer and reputation for yourself,” the king said. “I have heard accounts of your actions there and elsewhere and you show promise, Eofer. But before you can be held to be an eorle by your king you need to prove your worth and loyalty consistently.” Eomær fixed him with a hard stare. “Have you decided to accept Cerdic’s offer or remain with your own people in these difficult times?”
The blood drained from Eofer’s face as he stammered a reply. “My future and that of my people are irrevocably bound, lord.”
The king flicked Eofer a look of amusement. “You are wondering how I knew?” he said. “The truth is that I only had my suspicions until your expression gave you away. Leaders of armies can never have enough men of worth in their ranks Eofer,” he added with a self-satisfied smirk. “It was natural for a warlord in Cerdic’s position to attempt to enlist your help against his enemies. You need to be fox-cunning to wear the king helm and stay alive for as long as I have!” The humour quickly faded from the king’s face to be replaced by the stone-hard countenance of a leader of men. “I am your natural lord and I have a task for you, Eofer,” he said. “Complete it well and you will rise even higher in the estimation of your king and people.” The king guided his mount along a badger run which angled off across the face of the valley side, changing the subject to put his thegn at ease as the tail of the column and its shamefaced outrider emerged from the tree line. “Hygelac died like a king in Frankland, as did the men who accompanied him, I hear. Valhall will have had a riotous night welcoming all the new arrivals!” He glanced across as the horses walked on. “Have you heard from King Heardred?”
“Not since he sent word that he had taken the gift stool of the Geats.”
A shadow fell across them and Eofer glanced up to see that they had reached the outer compound which guarded the lodge. The ditch and mound which encircled the buildings were sharp edged, as yet unworn by the passage of time. Glancing up at the great timbers which formed the palisade above, Eofer could see that the wood was newly felled. The defences were recent additions and he sighed inwardly as he realised that the waters of the bay opposite, so long an English lake, were slipping from their control.
The king led them through the gatehouse and dismounted as a groom rushed across to lead the horse away. Eomær indicated that Eofer step to one side as the other riders entered the stockade. “King Heardred's position is secure. I have sent word to his neighbours that he is a friend of the English and promised him our help once again while he replaces the losses they incurred in the South.” Eofer made to thank the king, but he held up a hand and cut him short, his face suddenly fixed into a scowl. “That is not why we are here today. The Danes have violated our land and people and I will take a blood price for their arrogance.” He took the eorle by the arm and fixed him with a stare. “Your brother Wulf, lives. He is a captive in Dane Land and you, Eofer, will be the very point of our avenging spear.”
ELEVEN
The giant warrior and the men of his war-band knelt at the approach of the king. King Eomær indicated that they rise and turned to Eofer. “Eofer Wonreding, king's bane, this is the champion of the Heathobeards, Starkad Storvirkson.” Starkad smiled in greeting but the gesture carried little warmth. Despite the magnificence of the king, the sheer size and reputation of the great warrior of the War-Beards dominated the room.
Eofer studied the man as the king indicated that they remove themselves to the upper floor where the more detailed discussions between them would take place. Starkad, he decided, combined the build of a bull with the mien of a wolf. Clad in a web of mail, close fitting and shining as it reflected the flaming hearth, the War-Beard's most notable feature apart from his size was the three angry welts which scored his face, the result, stories told, of a fistfight with a bear. Starkad's left eye had been destroyed by a great swipe of the beast's paw, and the white orb which remained added to the menace which emanated from the man.
King Eomær led the pair to a stairway which climbed to the upper story as the warriors, English and Heathobeard settled at the benches. Eofer glared at Starkad as they approached the staircase and the War-Beard paused to allow the Engle to follow his king. Again the humourless smile flashed across the man's face, and Eofer found himself hoping that whatever the cause for his presence here, wyrd would never force them to become shield brothers.
The stairway emptied out onto a wide sunlit room which encircled the upper floor of the lodge. The wall spaces between the uprights of the building had been left open to the air from waist height to the thatch above, flooding the space with light. Food and drink had been provided at one end of the balcony and King Eomær indicated to the servants there that they should leave with a flick of his head.
The king rested his hands on a sill and looked out down the wide valley with a sigh. “This was a fine lodge,” he said, sweeping the area to the front with an arm. “Game would be driven towards us here on this platform and we could take them as they ran by.” He turned back and smiled ruefully. “I had it built when my father, King Engeltheow, grew too ol
d to hunt from horseback.” He gave a sad shrug. “We think that we have recovered from the sword strike that came from nowhere, the spear which came beneath the shield. We forget them, but they never forget us. All the old wounds come back to torment our bodies when the vigour of youth wanes.”
The king's humour came back with a rush as he threw off the feeling of melancholy and smiled. “Starkad, you have welcome news for my eorle.”
The cold smile returned and the War-Beard nodded. “Eofer, I am sure that your lord has broken the happy news of your brother's survival. I can tell you that he is being kept by the Danes at Hleidra. I was there only last month and saw him with my own eyes.”
Eofer beamed as the news which the king had passed to him in the courtyard was confirmed. “You have my thanks, Starkad, my family are in your debt.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked from the Heathobeard to his king and back again. “Forgive me, but the scops which tell of the deeds of the only Starkad Storvirkson known to me, have always failed to mention that he travels the northern lands bringing good cheer to grieving families. What is the real reason for your journey to my lord's land?”
Eomær and Starkad exchanged a look before both men threw back their heads and laughed. As was right, the king spoke first. “That was well said. You are your father's son, Eofer. King Ingeld has sent Starkad to me with the offer of an alliance against our common enemy, the Danes.” He took up a cup from the trestle and sipped from the mead within. “It seems that the efforts which King Hrothgar has made to cultivate their friendship have come to nought.” He looked back to the War-Beard. “Starkad, will you explain the weft and weave of the Danish scheming to my thegn.”
