by C. R. May
Eofer nodded. “I am going to run through things with the youth. When we pass this island I will relieve your boys at the lookout and braces and let them know that they will be walking home.” He flashed a mischievous smile. “That should please them!”
Eofer walked to the lip of the steering platform and called the men to him. Desperate now for an inkling of the task which lay ahead of them, the youth crowded forward as the men of the duguth, already privy to the details of the raid, hung back. Their eorle clenched his fist as he spat out the words he had ached to say openly since the day at the hunting lodge. “My brother Wulf still lives!” As the youth exchanged looks of excitement he continued. “All of you have heard the story of how he disappeared from the strand near Godmey, fighting against overwhelming numbers of Danish raiders. As you know, he was forced to launch an attack with the men of his hearth troop before help could come up. His men died bravely on the beach, but Wulf was observed from the cliffs to board the ship and take the fight to the enemy there.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as he was finally able to reveal Starkad's information to them. All but Spearhafoc knew Wulf and the men of his troop well. Despite the deaths they would be almost as keen to snatch his brother away and avenge their fallen friends. “He is being kept at Hrothgar's hall until the time of the winter blod. The Danes mean to sacrifice him to the honour of the gods, but we are going to replace that offering with fire and steel.” He grinned as an animated chatter rolled through the group. At the margins, the men of the duguth beamed. “King Ingeld of the Heathobeards launched an attack on the southern coast of Daneland two days' hence. That is enough time for Hrothgar to have summoned his jarls and rushed south to meet the threat. Our task is to rescue Wulf and cause as much chaos and mayhem in the Danish rear as we can.” Eofer's eyes shone bright as the youth craned their necks and awaited the details of his plan. “Listen carefully, this is what we are going to do.”
Free of the channel, the Fælcen drove south.
“Bassa, get that rag down and run up the White Dragon!”
Wide grins spread across the faces of the crew as they paused at their preparations, relishing the moment that the hel-black flag of the Danes was lowered and the scarlet war flag of the English shot to the mast top. Spear tips stabbed out as the dark banner was passed around and soon the white boar at its centre was a shredded mess.
“Toss that thing overboard,” Eofer snarled as the war-fire coursed through his veins. “You know your places, go to them now.” He turned to Spearhafoc and clapped her on the shoulder. “Get yourself up into the prow, and remember,” he said. “Keep your eyes away from any lights as well as you are able. It is important that we get ashore with as little opposition as possible.” The youth rolled her eyes and he snorted as she bent the stave to the bowstring and scampered away into the gloom. She was an experienced hunter, a night stalker, and the advice had been unnecessary, but it amused him to give it anyway.
The whole success of the raid could very well depend on the initial landing. If they could fire the ships and buildings on the waterfront and make their escape they would be well on the way to fulfilling their aims. If the little scegth with its distinctive red banner was spotted on its approach by an alert guard and the alarm raised, they may have to fight their way ashore. The Danes, although reduced in number, would be on edge as they awaited news of the fighting in the South. The War-Beards' actions were a double-edged sword. They could die, there and then.
Eofer glanced up at the war flag and considered lowering it again but the pride which filled him forbade it. Rippling forward, its white dragon glimmering in the steel-like sliver of the new moon, the great arms of the beast seemed to be reaching out to grasp its enemies. He could not deny the trusty old Fælcen such a glorious death after all they had been through together. Dismissing the thought as unworthy, he put the fear out of his mind. If the Danes came, they would kill them; on the waterfront or in the streets it made little difference.
The course set, the wind blowing steadily abaft, Sæward was in a huddle on the steering platform with his lads. Eofer shot them all what he hoped was a wink of encouragement as they rushed to don mail and helm, their shipborne duties all but done as far as the little Fælcen was concerned.
The smattering of lights on each beam were rapidly drawing in on the ship as the waterway funnelled them down to the landing place. They had been told to expect to find a dozen or so small craft moored there for the winter and, as the Fælcen cleared the final headland and swept down on the anchorage, Eofer clenched his fist with joy as the brazier of a distant watchman revealed the dark shapes herded together at the quayside. He turned to Sæward and, gripping forearms, they exchanged a look which required no words before Eofer went for'ard. The men of his hearth troop held their spear and sword points forward as he passed, and their eorle drew Blood-Worm with a flourish, touching blades together in an act the English called bindung, the binding.
Ducking under the sail, Eofer was pleased to see that the dark twins, Crawa and his brother Hræfen, were already set in the bows, their helmeted heads dipped below the level of the gunwale lest any light reflect and alert those ashore that this small boat which had suddenly appeared from the gloom contained anything other than a Danish latecomer.
Spearhafoc alone wore a cap of sealskin in the fashion of a seaman as she stood, foot braced against the prow, her head moving methodically from side to side as the youth marked her targets. Any Danes watching their approach would expect to see crewmen working the ship, not least a man in the bow to guide her to her berth. Eofer's lips stretched into a smile of admiration as he crouched and watched the young woman curl and uncurl the fingers of her right hand around the bowstring, the only outward sign of the nerves he knew must be plucking at her insides at the weight of responsibility which weighed on her young shoulders. Her longbow was held low in the shadow of the prow, an arrow nocked and ready to loose, as she waited for the moment which was coming closer with every heartbeat.
Eofer stole a look behind. The men were crouched in the lee of their lord, almost panting with excitement like wolfhounds at the slips, and he took a last look up at the sail, full and taut in the following wind as it billowed like a summer cloud in the light from the shore. At its head the blood red flag of Engeln whipped forward, now in plain sight, and Eofer's head snapped back for'ard as he realised that their identity must be revealed to the sleepy guards within the next few moments.
They were close enough now to make out details on the shore, and Eofer looked on with mounting excitement as the dark shape of a watchman rose from his place beside a brazier and moved towards them. Leaning forward, he was squinting into the gloom as he attempted to understand the actions of the strange ship which came on with no sign of the crew spilling the wind from its sail. Suddenly they saw the man start as he recognised the pennant which flew proudly above the little scegth and, within a heartbeat, Spearhafoc's bow came up and a shaft sped away into the darkness. The youth fitted another and swung to the left, the arrow whickering away as the bow swung back and she nocked and loosed again.
The spell broken, Eofer stood and watched as the first arrow found its mark, the watchman shooting backwards as if tugged by the hand of a giant. The metallic chinking of mail and arms to his rear told him that the men of his troop were rising from the scuppers and forming on their duguth. Each man, his weorthman Thrush Hemming, Imma Gold, Osbeorn, Octa, knew their task, and the men gathered the youth assigned to them like hens with their brood as they waited for the Fælcen to strike home.
The fat bellied hulls of the cargo ships were now a line across their bows, rotten teeth jutting up from the cold mouth of the sound, as Sæward peered around the sheet and aimed her elegant prow between two of the fattest.
Another arrow found its mark and a dark shape tumbled into the waters from the stern of a nearby hull. Eofer placed a hand on the shoulder of the girl and she nodded that she understood without a backwards glance. The Danish hulls were now
a rampart before them, and they braced as the scegth passed into the shadows and shouldered them aside, the prow rising in challenge to her fiend ashore as she wedged her narrow body tightly between her victims.
With a leap they were over the sides, pouring forward along the decks of the neighbouring ships and searching for their first opponents. The high pitched twang of a bowstring sounded at his elbow and another shaft sped away. Eofer watched the flight of the arrow as, a silvered dart in the glow of the dead watchman's fire, it flew to send another Dane tumbling down into the arms of Hel. Reaching the bows the eorle vaulted the gap and braced, the first to place his feet on the soil of Daneland. Swinging his shield forward, he hunched behind the board as he hurried across the open quay towards the road which led inland. A glance down and he smiled despite the tension of the moment as he saw the body of Spearhafoc's first victim sprawled on its back, the gory shaft of the arrow which had taken his life perfectly placed between his unseeing eyes.
A flash of light appeared to his left as a door was thrown open, but a glance told him that Octa and Oswin were there and the shadowy outline of the figure it contained crumpled as the spear thrust found its mark and the English pushed their way inside the building.
Thrush Hemming came up. “How far, lord?”
Eofer scanned the shadows for any sign of a threat as he replied. “Not far, the stud farm should be on the edge of the settlement.” He indicated a twin storied building at the head of the track, “just past that barn.”
They fanned out into a broad front as they jogged up the road to their goal. Eofer with Crawa and Hræfen proudly flanking their lord, Thrush Hemming to the right with Rand and Finn, Imma Gold to the left with his youth, Cæd and Æsc as Spearhafoc brought up the rear, her bow taut and ready to loose as she covered their backs.
The sound of crashing doors to the rear was replaced by that of splintering wood as any opposition from the houses lining the waterfront waned and Sæward and his boys hacked at the ships, preparing them for the flames to follow. Eofer passed from light back into darkness as he led the charge out of town and the flames from the watchman's brazier were left behind. The clouds were ragged now as they cleared away to the East and they caught their breath as an owl, huge and white in the light of the new moon, swept across their path with a lazy beat of its great wings. The bird foretold a death and Eofer seized the moment to round on his men with a grin. “The gods are watching us, lads. Let's give them something to remember us by.” Without waiting for a reply, Eofer rounded the barn but slowed to a halt, horror stricken at the sight which met his eyes.
FOURTEEN
Eofer glowered from beneath his battle helm. Cunningly worked, the four silvered plates depicted his moment of victory in war over the king of Swedes, beating down the old battle-boar Ongentheow, as his own brother Wulf lay prone and helpless at their feet; Woden riding down a foeman as the eagle and raven circled overhead. On the left-hand side spear men marched, shields held high to war and, above the left eye danced the wolf warriors, marking the Engle as a member of the warrior elite. Blood-Worm, the finest of blades, killer of kings, hung suspended from a magnificent baldric of fine red leather and gold, his spear, the finest in the company, pierced the sky. He looked, he was, an English eorle in his war glory. He turned to Thrush Hemming, his right-hand man in the clash of shields, the dance of spears, and spoke. “I feel an utter cocc!”
He glanced across to his weorthman as he shot into the air for what seemed like the thousandth time and his black mood cleared like autumn smoke. They had travelled more than a mile now and his duguth had clearly not yet mastered the rise and fall of the ass's movements. His arse was still hitting the rump of the beast each time it rose with a crash like Thunor's hammer. To add to the hilarity, Hemming's helm had worked loose under the strain and now bobbled about his head like an egg in boiling water, falling to cover first one eye and then the other as the animal trotted on. Hemming attempted to answer his lord, but the pounding on his rump defeated him. “I, I, I, I,...”
Eofer managed to gasp out a retort as he finally succumbed to the ridiculousness of the situation. “We haven't got time for singing, you arse. We are in the shit!” Both men laughed liked idiots, and the tension of the night evaporated as the laughter trailed away.
Eofer reined in and slid from the threadbare blanket which served as a saddle, massaging his rump and flexing his battered legs. He realised that Hemming's ass was still trotting on and called after him. “Thrush, I have stopped.” He watched as his duguth's arm moved up to push his helm away from his eyes and the man made a hasty grab for the reins as, already off balance, he crashed down into the animal's back again and was almost catapulted onto the track. “Stopped what?”
“I have stopped. I am standing on the roadway. I am not moving.”
Hemming leapt from the animal and gave it a vicious kick. “Thank the gods!”
He walked back towards his lord as he loosened his helm and drew it from his head. Running a hand through his hair, his teeth flashed in the moonlight. “We must be almost there, the woman said it was only a mile. Women have a habit of telling the truth when men with bloodstained spears are bouncing their bairns upon their knee.”
A shallow fold in the ground lay ahead and the men exchanged a glance. Both men knew that if the stud did not lay, as promised, on the other side of the rise they would have to retrace their steps and rejoin the men of the troop. The moon was transiting the sky and, although the dawn was still some way off, they were rapidly running out of time. The sky to the West was a crimson blush as the ships and buildings there met their fiery end, and Eofer felt a pang of remorse as his imagination threw up a picture of the harsh fate of the Fælcen, the scegth little more than a hulk, burned to the waterline.
Hobbling the animals, the pair trotted up the grassy slope. Reaching the top they exchanged a look which combined triumph and relief in equal measure as the moonlight revealed their goal. Before them lay King Hrothgar's stud, the unmistakable paraphernalia of a horse farm, tack and bridles resting on the fence tops of the half dozen neatly demarcated fields. Nestling at the northern end of the pasture a small hall had been built to accommodate the king and his men when they visited with a larger, more workaday building set to one side to house the men who worked the farm on a daily basis. Barns, stables and an exercise paddock completed the scene.
“There's no horses,” Hemming said with a hint of despair.
Eofer nodded towards the stables. “No, but the dung looks fresh. Come on let's get down there.”
Angling across the back slope, the pair regained the track and jogged across. The fold petered out as it approached the entrance to the estate and the Englishmen lowered their spears and searched the shadows as they passed through a gate and into the compound. Unable to bring their shields with them on the backs of the bouncing asses, each man swept their gar before them as they searched out their first victim. Heavier than the daroth, the slim shafted javelin used for hurling at the enemy, the gar was perfect for use in constricted places, shield walls and buildings, where there was little space to swing a sword or axe.
As the pair drew up before the hall, a Danish voice caused them to spin around anxiously as it hailed them from the stable entrance. “Are you looking for a horse, lord?”
Eofer had expected to find someone awake, even during the hours of darkness. The king's horses were valuable objects, they would be under guard constantly. “A shipload of Heathobeards have fired the docks. Our horses were killed under us so we made our way here. We must ride to Hroar's Kilde, an attack could be imminent at the docks there also.”
A look of unease flashed across the face of the Dane before he managed to suppress it and Eofer felt Hemming tense at his side.
“I will go and wake some of the lads, lord,” the Dane said. “They will have you mounted and on your way in no time.”
Eofer moved to block his path as he smiled disarmingly. “There's no need, we can saddle a horse. Time is important
, an attack could come at any time.”
The guard lowered his own spear and shuffled back into the shadows, drawing a breath as he prepared to shout for help. Eofer and Hemming started to make a desperate lunge to silence the Dane but they froze in surprise as a look of shock and horror crossed the man's face and the bloody point of a spear punched clear of his throat. His own spear clattered to the ground as, tottering and wheezing, the Dane's hands went to his neck as the air which would have carried his cry for salvation bubbled from the wound in a darkening froth. The spear point slid from sight as a hand clasped itself around the Dane's mouth and he was tugged bodily back into the shadows. As Eofer and Hemming exchanged a look of surprise the spear man finally emerged into the light.
“Your accent is shocking, lord, but you might have got away with it.” He turned and spat at the body of the Dane. “This one's not too bright, that's why he is guarding horses while the better warriors are in the South.” He tapped at his shoulder. “He noticed this though, you may as well have spoken in English. Danes don't wear square headed brooches, theirs are always round.”
Eofer finally found his tongue. “You're English?”
The man nodded. “Yes, lord. My name is Grimwulf.” A look of savage delight came upon him as he aimed a kick at the Dane's body. “I was a thræl here until a few moments ago.”
“Are there any more guards here, Grimwulf?”
“One out the back. I will take care of him, he won't suspect anything until it's too late.” Grimwulf indicated the halls with a flick of his head. “There are only a dozen thræls left in the hall, lord. No English, mostly Saxons. Good with horses the Saxons. The warriors left the day before yesterday.”
“Will these Saxons fight?”
He nodded eagerly. “To a man, lord.”
Eofer began to relax. The wheel of fortune was beginning to turn his way again after the shock at the first farm. To round a barn and come face-to-face with a field of turnips when you had staked the life of yourself and every man with you on finding a stock of fine hunters had been a low point in his many years of raiding, around the rim of the German Sea and beyond. “Take care of the guard and then round up your friends, Grimwulf. We will make a start saddling up the horses.”
