by C. R. May
Starkad dipped his head. “Hrothgar has been trying to placate his neighbours to the South with gold and peace-weaving. Ever since the death of the fell troll which plagued Heorot they have been rebuilding their strength, and now they are over-proud once more. Now that any threat from the Geats has been removed by the Franks and Frisians,” he shrugged and took a mouthful of ale as the king supplied the end to the sentence. “They are free to raid the lands which they have always coveted, our lands being chief among them.”
Eofer looked back to Starkad. “If the Danes are your enemies, why were you there so recently?”
Starkad chuckled and Eofer saw a degree of respect begin to tint his attitude towards him. “You are right to be wary,” the giant smiled. “My king is no friend of the English. You may or may not know, Eofer king's bane, but I am not a Heathobeard by birth. My people are the Eisti who lie on the eastern shores of the sea which you call the Beltic. I was shipwrecked as a young man and entered the service of King Ingeld's father, King Froda. Early in his reign Hrothgar attacked and killed my king whilst I was leading a raid on the lands of the Wulfings. His son, Ingeld took the king helm but we could never avenge our lord's death.” He coloured with the admission, but set his face as he forced down the sense of shame. “Last summer, Hrothgar sent word that he desired old enmities be forgotten between us. He sent my king a magnificent longship filled with treasure, gold rings, cunningly worked sword blades and mail byrnies, along with the offer of the hand of his only daughter, Freawaru, as a peace-weaver. Against my advice, the king accepted and led a party to Heorot to collect his bride. While we were there I saw your brother and heard the tale of the brave attack he led against Prince Hrothmund and his vikings on Harrow.”
Eofer exchanged a sidelong look with his lord and King Eomær recognised the eorle's mistrust. “You are right to be wary,” he said, “but there is more.”
Starkad brightened and a look of satisfaction returned to his face. “During the feasting at Heorot, a young Dane was boasting of his father's war-luck. He brandished a blade which I recognised at once as the ancestral sword which had belonged to my friend Withergeld long ago. He had fought at the front when King Froda had died. All who escaped the reddened maw of the wolf and raven that day called him a hero. Withergeld's son, Brand, was with our party and I drew his attention to the blade.” Starkad drew himself up proudly as he described the result of his goading. “Brand acted with honour. He challenged the Dane to holmgang before the assembly. Despite the efforts of Hrothgar and his cwen, Wealhtheow, the withies were set outside and Brand took blood-price, slaying his father's killer.” The War-Beard threw them a wolfish smile. “Blood had been spilt and old wounds reopened. The betrothal was rejected. King Ingeld returned the woman to her parents and we left for home.”
Starkad reached for a cup of ale with an air of triumph, and Eofer wondered at the man's disloyalty. It was plain that he had looked for a reason to disrupt the betrothal despite the wishes of his king and lord. A warrior's first duty was to the man who had received his oath, any personal ambition or feelings were irrelevant. He exchanged a look with his king which confirmed that both Englishmen were agreed that this Starkad Storvirkson was about as trustworthy as a sack of adders.
Despite the mutually felt distrust, the king moved to allay his fears. “I have heard this tale from other sources, but the detail about your brother, Wulf, is new to me. I would pay red gold for his return but it is the opinion of King Ingeld, and I agree, that my offer would be rejected. It would also let the Danes know that we were aware that he had survived the fight, and that would make your own attack less likely to succeed.”
Eofer's heart raced as the reason for his summons by war-sword became clear.
Starkad nodded as he confirmed the king's statement. “As King Eomær says, the Danes are not looking for ransom.” He fixed Eofer with a stare. “Your brother is to be sacrificed at the winter solstice.”
The last of the warriors filed into the hall as the setting sun painted the town beyond the palisade a fiery red. The men exchanged glances as Ælfhelm, the reeve of Eorthdraca, drew the great doors together with a resounding boom. They had gathered and watched as the king and his guda had sacrificed a war stallion to Ing in the shadow of the hall, seeking his guidance in the deliberations to come. Each man there knew that, in the flames of the evening sky, the god had provided them with his answer.
Eofer and the men of his hearth troop had been shown great honour by the king, and he smiled to himself in satisfaction as he recognised the whispered comments and envious looks of the other thegns present as they took their place at the lower benches. Eofer looked across to his father and felt a surge of pride. Sat among his fellow folctoga and men of the wise, only feet away from King Eomær himself, Wonred had reached the pinnacle of his ambition. Eofer caught his eye and threw him a wink, chuckling to himself as his father beamed in return.
The last of the evening light was fading from the wind holes high in the side wall of Eorthdraca, casting the roof beams and the space between into alternating furrows of blood and soil. Ing was guiding his people to war and, as the hubbub subsided, the last of the thræls set the torches into the great iron stands and hurried away.
A voice boomed from the top table, filling the hall, and Eofer saw that the old reeve, Æscwine, had the duties within the hall that evening. He recognised the king's hand in it and found that he approved of his choice. The old man deserved the honour after a lifetime of devotion to his clan.
The sound of wood scraping on wood echoed around the walls as the warriors rose to welcome their lord's lady. Cwen Eahlswith entered the hall from a rear door, carrying the great drinking horn of the symbel before her. Throwing the hall a radiant smile, she moved to the king and passed the great horn across. Longer than a man's arm, the symbel horn was said to have been wrenched from an aurochs by Woden himself after a hunt long ago. Gilt figures of men and beasts encircled the mouthpiece and, curling up from its base, a silver terminal ended in the great sweep of a raven's beak, Woden's bird. King Eomær took the horn with a gracious nod to his cwen and sank the first mouthful of the specially brewed beer contained within. Stronger than ale and mead, the brew was infused with herbs known only to Osgar, the king's leading guda. The beer was an important part of the ritual, helping the men, king and warriors alike, to enter the state which they called giddig, the swirling feeling when Woden came among them and the god entered their minds. The warriors remained silent as the cwen moved along the top table, passing the horn from folctoga to folctoga and conversing easily with each man.
Soon, Eahlswith stood before Eofer's bench companions and she smiled warmly and wished them well as they sipped from the horn. As she moved through the great space the men were free to take their seats once again and the real drinking of the evening could begin. Eofer charged the cups of each of his duguth and solemnly raised his own.
“Here's to our success…”
The warriors raised their cups in reply and they came together with a clatter as they made the pledge and roared the retort.
“Wæs Hæl! Drinc Hæl!”
Imma Gold shook his head in appreciation and looked at his cup. “Symbel beer,” he breathed, “the drink of the gods!”
They all shared a laugh as they began to relax and enjoy the evening. All of the men now knew the reason for the journey to the hunting lodge in the isolated valley, and they were eager to take the war to the Danes. Each man there had known their eorle's brother for a decade or more and the men of the brothers' troop had fought side by side in shield walls in Swede Land and Britannia. They knew now that their shield-brothers were dead to a man, but they had died with honour, sword or spear in hand, and they were feasting with their ancestors in an even greater hall as they themselves sat at their beer. Soon, they knew, they would sail the whale-road, free Wulf and wreak bloody vengeance.
The hall was now abuzz as the cwen paused at the top table to kiss her lord before departing the gathering. The sky
lights were now solid squares of jet as the men set to their beer and the first dancers strode into the space before the king and took up their stance. Each youth carried a gar in each hand, the heavy thrusting spears of the English shield wall. Clad only in a belt of exquisite workmanship, the dancers crouched beneath the helms which symbolised membership of the wolf brotherhood. Binding friend and fiend among the warriors of the northern lands, the helms terminated in a pair of opposing raven heads which curled above the dome to form a crest. Every thegn had danced the dance of the wolf warrior at his own initiation into the cult and he carried a representation of the wolf dancers on a plate above the left eye of his own battle helm. It served to identify the warrior elite on the battlefield, and although no quarter would be expected or given among opposing members of the brotherhood, they would seek to ensure that their enemy died sword in hand and gain entry to Valhall.
As the youths danced, thrusting their gar in time to a steady drumbeat, Osgar reappeared with his underlings bearing sheaths of barley, feeding them into the braziers which were scattered about the hall. A weave of wildflowers and secret things known only to men of their craft, the sheaths represented the founder of the English people, Sceaf himself. It was the first indication to the warriors present that this symbel was to be much more than a call to arms, and the king watched from his gift stool as his men exchanged questioning looks. Soon the air was thick with the sweet smell drifting across from the fires as Æscwine came forward to strike the boards with the hall staff.
A veil of smoke moved to engulf the men at the top table and, as it cleared, the now giddig warriors in the hall saw that their king had been transfigured into Woden himself. The god sat on the king's gift stool, his great spear Shaker held in his right hand and a hart topped whetstone grasped in his left. A grim-helm of silvered plates enclosed the god's face and head, the left eye alone glowing a dull hoop of red in the reflected light of the hearth.
Æscwine crashed the staff and spoke again. “The Allfather has been invoked, not as you imagined, to guide our arms against the Dane. King Eomær and the men of his witan have discussed the depredations, both here in Engeln and overseas in Anglia, but cannot agree on the solution.” He paused and seemed to compose himself before continuing. “The matter is simply this. We are agreed that the point has been reached where we must make a decision whether the future of the English folk lies on this side of the sea or in the new settlements in Britannia. Our enemies here grow stronger and covet our ancestral lands. The Danes push us from the East and the Jutes from the North. We can recall the warriors from Anglia and smite these foe as we have always done in former days or we can move to the new lands, but the king fears that we cannot do both. The floor is open. Speak now before the Allfather, whose wisdom will guide us in our search.”
A hush descended on Eorthdraca as, even in their giddiness, the thegns and the men of their hearth troop sat stunned by the enormity of the choice which lay before them. Even the scops, the guardians of the folk memory of the people, agreed that the English had inhabited these lands since the days of Sceaf. Their barrows littered the land, the very soil was made from the dust of their ancestors. A thegn got to his feet and addressed his god. “Allfather, we cannot leave. You know these lands to be English lands.” He looked about the hall and his mouth curled into a smile. “The men I see before me fear no man, Dane nor…” he paused and sneered as a rumble of agreement rolled around the hall, “Jute.” He looked back to the figure on the gift stool and drew himself to his full height. “Advise our witan, lord, to bring the men home. Let us sweep these Danes back into the lakes and pine forests of Scandia from which they crawled.” The thegn regained his bench, and the hall resounded with the thunder made by stamping feet and pummelled tables.
As the noise resounded within the ancient walls, Eofer's mind began to drift. Whether it was the effects of the sacred smoke or the presence of the Allfather he could not say, but, to his astonishment he found that he was back on the windy ridge above the great white horse carving of the Atrebates. A brace of ravens rode the updraft, spiralling aloft as the woods and hills of Britannia melted into the distance. Suddenly the sharp note of iron striking stone sounded clearly in his mind and he snorted in recognition of the moment. The message was clear, and Eofer found that he was climbing to his feet. The noise drained away like ale from an upturned barrel, and Eofer's heart quickened as the hall fell silent. He faced his god and the words spilled easily. “You know as well as I, lord,” he began, “that the quality of the new land is matched only by the cowardice of its leaders and the indolence of its inhabitants. The lands of Britannia are old lands, dotted with wondrous works of the old people, the work of giants. I travelled the width of the island this summer past and I saw with my own eyes roads and buildings of stone standing abandoned, fields and woods groaning with barley and game. It is a land ripe for a vigorous people, a people accustomed to toil and victory in battle play. A people who will oust the Christ god and return the land to the old gods, the real gods, the only gods.” Eofer swept the silent hall with his gaze before steeling his nerve to look directly into the glowing eye of Woden. “Allfather, guide our people to the West. Let us replace the weeds with a hardier seed. Let us grow strong there together, gods and folk.”
TWELVE
The Fælcen slid easily through the narrow waters known as the throat. They passed the town of Theodford, the people's ford, and the ferry which gave the town its name with gentle strokes of the oars, its wharfs and jetties grey and deserted in the late autumn light as they struck out for the mouth itself. Here the Sley took its final turn to the East, widening out into a broad bay before the enclosing arms of land moved back to pinch its entrance. Free of the constriction and the trees which pressed it on all sides, Eofer smiled to himself as the crew cast hopeful glances at the dragon pennant which capped the mast. Within moments they were rewarded as the first breath of wind that day snatched at the banner, unfurling it with crack and sending it snaking away to the North. Their lord answered their hopes as he called down the ship with a smile. “Ship oars. Bassa and Beornwulf, hoist the yard and shake out the sail. Let's make some real progress.”
The vessel came alive as the crew moved to unship the oars from the tholepins and the spar was manhandled into position. As the crew swung the oars inboard and stacked them on the cross trees amidships, the sail filled with a sigh as the Fælcen took a breath and bounded forward on the swell. Eofer flicked a look at Sæward and chuckled inwardly as he recognised the joy on his friend's features as the big oar began to bite the waters and ship became a hunter once more.
The eorle turned to the South and noted the position of the sun. Placing his hand sidelong on the horizon he counted to three as he moved it up to the pale ball.
Sæward spoke. “Are we putting in at the burh, lord?”
Eofer shook his head. “No, I want us to stay as far from folk as I can. Besides,” he said glancing up at the flag, “the wind is perfect. Let's make the most of it while we have it. We will make the Bight by nightfall and be at Needham first thing.” Eofer instinctively glanced down at the hatch cover where the collection of swords, spearheads and helms had been stowed for their one-way trip. “We'll shoot the Little Belt tomorrow if it holds and swing east to pitch our final camp on the northern coast of Harrow.”
A skein of geese flew low across the bows and, skimming the surface, beat their way to the South. Overhead, gulls came in ones and twos, their harsh cries cutting the air as they looked to scavenge any morsels which might find their way overboard. Eofer crossed to the steersman and leaned close. As a duguth he knew the reason for the journey and could be relied on to guard that knowledge closely. The others had yet to earn that trust, and youthful bluster had cost more then one seasoned warrior his life. “Starkad said that the Heathobeards will launch their attack one week after Winterfylleth. That leaves us little enough time to dally.” He shrugged. “Only the gods know who will win the battle, but I do know that the Danes will
react with speed and vigour, despite the lateness of the year.”
Sæward sucked at his teeth as he looked down the ship. Octa was in a huddle with Oswin word-poor, his arm stabbing out an imaginary dagger as the duguth made good on the promise he had made to his lord. Spearhafoc sat with her back to the mast as she examined the fetching on an arrow. “How many do you think we will lose?”
Eofer shrugged again. “That depends how much Woden likes our gifts.” The steersman gave his eorle a pensive look and Eofer cocked his head in question.
Sæward tapped the steer bord of the ship lovingly and checked that nobody was within earshot. “If the old girl here is making a one way trip, what happens if the Danes have taken all of the horses from this stud and ridden south on them to confront the War-Beards?” He sniffed and wiped his nose on the cuff of his sleeve, almost as if his body was disowning the thought lest he be thought a nithing for harbouring a doubt at his lord's plan. “It would make sense.”
Eofer shook his head. “The horses there are Hrothgar's finest hunting mounts. They are not trained for war, he has other horses for that duty. Believe me,” he said, “the king of Danes would not let anyone use his prize hunters to attack a spear-hedge. But, if he has, then we shall form our own shield-burh and die like men.
The ship shuddered as they emerged from the shelter of the land and headed out across the Bight, but the wind was astern and the little scegth drove ahead, her tall bow sending back a shower of salty spray over man and thwarts alike. Eofer looked across to the West. The sun had left Middle-earth, the last echoes of its light shading the skyline against the dark, hard edge of the distant Wolds as a voice cut the gloom. “I hope that they don't forget to light the beacon, lord!”
