by C. R. May
Wonred raised his shield and spear high as the sliver of the sun finally slipped below the distant horizon. The timing was perfect and the men of his hearth troop hauled on the rope and drew the horse on to its hind quarters. As the rope bit and the animal thrashed the air with its bloodied hoofs, an unearthly yowl split the air as the noose tightened. The blood drained from the faces of the English warriors with the power of the moment as they beat spear shafts against the rims of their shields and chanted the god's name. Wonred walked across to the steed as the men of his troop strained against the rope and finally managed to lift the war horse clear of the ground. Raising his face to the quickly darkening sky, the ealdorman spoke again.
“An ash I know there stands,
Terror Horse is its name,
the bane of the hanged, a rare fruit;
As the horse fought to free itself, the hanging tree shook and creaked as the grim faced men dug in their heels and took up the strain. As the struggles of the terrified horse began to abate and its kicks grew increasingly spasmodic, the great bulk broached and its tongue lolled from its mouth as Wonred approached.
“Terror Horse shivers,
the ash as it stands,
the old tree groans…”
He raised his spear and plunged it deep into the horse's flank, making the dedication as the light from the brands flickered and played about the mail and weapons which ringed them.
“You hung on a windy tree nine long nights,
wounded with a spear, dedicated to Woden,
yourself to yourself,
on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run…”
Wonred thrust the spear upwards and the horse kicked out a final time as the blade divided its great heart. As the blood from the sacrifice ran the length of the spear shaft to gush from its base, the warriors came forward to anoint their own weapons as they readied themselves for war.
EIGHTEEN
“Here she is lord, our masterpiece.”
Osric pulled open the rickety door and ducked inside. Eofer and Sæward followed on, eager to take the first glimpse of their new scegth. Both men inhaled deeply as the distinctive smells of the boat shed washed around them, tar, pitch, the sharp tang of oak and pine. The pair exchanged a look and Eofer's ship master was the first to break the silence. “It's a masterpiece all right,” he breathed. “What a beauty!”
Osric led them forward, the pride in the work of his team obvious to all. He ran a hand lovingly along the curve of her sheer strake as he described the ship to the wonderstruck men. “Six strakes each side, same as before. I have asked one of the lads to bring his brother down to the sheds, lord. The man can carve a scene that's so lifelike you'd think that it was real.” Osric flashed them a smile. “May as well have the best when the king is paying for it eh!” He hopped up onto a bench. Shuffling to the end as Eofer and his duguth joined him, he rested his arms on the gunwale and peered inside. “As you ordered, lord, the same dimensions as the Fælcen. Twelve thwarts with twenty-four tholepins, a dozen a side. No through-deck and,” he pointed to the bow and stern, “a steering platform at either end with a complete rudder assembly at each, just like you wanted.” Sæward's features broke into a smile as the shipwright described the extra fitting. “There's not much you can see now that the planking is in place, but it's all there. You can see the strengthening block where it emerges from the deck, the rudder rib and the withy are hidden, but the boss and rudder band remain in place at all times. You'll have the rudder where you need it in no time.” Osric rubbed his chin as he looked sidelong at the pair. “If you don't mind me asking, lord, why do you want to be able to mount the rudder at either end?”
Sæward exchanged a look with his eorle and Eofer nodded that he should explain. “We will use the ship to follow the rivers, deep into the lands of the Franks and the Britons. The shallow drought of the scegth allows us to raid almost up to the headwaters of the rivers there, large and small, places which never thought to see an English ship. But,” he shrugged, “there is never enough room to turn the ship when the time comes to beat a hasty retreat.”
“Sometimes very hasty!” Eofer added with a snort of amusement. Looking up he noticed that Osric's artisans had paused at their work and were listening to the tale. He beckoned them over with a jerk of his head. “Come across and hear the importance of your work. We often owe our lives to your craftsmanship, you deserve to know how much it means to us.”
The men downed tools and sauntered across. A pair of them had been hammering in what looked to be the final nails as they fixed the thwarts to the side strakes. Unlike the heavier ships they had seen in the South, the English shipyards always constructed the hulls from the outside in. The keel was scarfed into the bow and stern posts and then the side strakes added until the shell of the hull was complete. The frames known as the thwarts were then added to brace the hull, iron nails driven through from the outside and cleated over a small square piece of iron known as a rove. Strong and flexible, the ships were ideal for use in the shallow waters of the German Sea and the rivers which ran into it.
Eofer ran his eyes along his new ship for the first time as the men assembled, admiring her sleek lines, comparing her to the Fælcen and finding nothing to fault.
Sæward asked a question of his own. “What about the tholepins? If we swap the rudder around, the hook of the thorn will be pointing back the wrong way. We won't be able to row.”
The shipwright clapped him on the shoulder. “We have included a few mallets in the tool chest, amidships. Pop the tree nails out the same as you would any belaying pin and switch them around when needs be. It should take you no time, you'll be leaving these wealas shouting at your wake.”
Eofer nodded, satisfied. “When can she be launched?”
Osric exchanged a look with his leading artisan who pursed his lips and nodded. Obviously the matter had already been discussed between the two. Now he was confirming the shipwright’s own assessment. “Tomorrow morning, if we stay late tonight lord. There is a little bit of tarring to touch up and the pine fittings need to be added, the oars and such like. They come from stock, we always have a supply to hand. We can step the mast and get a team of riggers in to finish her off tonight. It shouldn't be hard to drag them away from their ale this once, they all know we do the king's work. Fit her a sail and she's done, the design on the sheer strake can be added later. I'll fit her with a wind vane for now, no doubt you will want to replace it with your own design when you get the chance.”
Sæward's triumphant smile told them all that he had been waiting a long time for just this moment. Slipping a bag from his shoulder he undid the ties which bound it and brought out a large object wrapped securely in a red cloth. Carefully unfolding the leaves of the bundle, Sæward revealed the old bronze weathervane from the Fælcen wrapped in the storm weathered flag of Engeln. He turned to Eofer and smiled proudly at the look of surprise on his lord's face. “I had Bassa and Beornwulf shimmy up the mast before the flames engulfed them, lord. Never seen them move so fast,” he added with a chuckle. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
NINETEEN
Astrid paused and listened. “There it is again.”
Eofer concentrated on his hearing but there was nothing beyond the baleful sounds of midwinter. The soft sweep of the treetops as they sawed back and forth in the wind which blew up from the Muddy Sea, the harsh call of a rook. Somewhere in the Wolds a fox barked.
Astrid looked at her husband askance. “You must hear it!” Eofer listened again and pulled a face as Astrid shook her head and chided him. “Your hearing is going, you'll end up like your father. We shall all have to repeat ourselves three times before you pretend to know what we are saying!”
Armed and dressed in a hastily thrown on mail shirt, Thrush came from the hall and handed him his sword and shield as the breeze finally carried a trace of the sound to Eofer's ears. “Oh, you mean the hunting horn,” he bluffed. “Have you just heard it?” The rest of the t
roop tumbled from the doorway and formed a wall across the entrance as Astrid threw Eofer a knowing look, smiling to herself as she went to check on the whereabouts of Weohstan. Men were approaching, openly it was true, but it always paid to be sure.
Eofer gave the shield wall a quick glance and smiled his thanks as Imma handed him his own battle helm. Slipping it on, he adjusted the fastening as the mounted party finally broke free from the tree line. Searching out the banners which would announce the identity of the unexpected visitor, Eofer smiled with delight as he recognised the Raven banner of the ætheling, Icel, alongside the dragon of Engeln. Unfastening his helm he tossed it back to Imma and bade them keep their weapons sheathed before striding forward to welcome his lord.
The mounted column shone like glass in the weak sun of the northern winter as it snaked its way down to the hall of the thegn, and Eofer smiled a greeting as the outriders passed the paddock and clattered into the courtyard. Fanning out to left and right, the men of Icel's hearth troop turned the heads of their mounts inward and drew up facing one another as the ætheling followed his war banners into the open space.
Without his helm, Icel was unmistakable among the leading men of the English. Almost alone among the warrior class, the ætheling kept his straw blond hair cropped short in the fashion of the ceorls and fishermen. Naturally unruly, the tufts crowned a body made broad and muscular in the service of his father the king, and had been responsible for the nickname 'haystack' which the people had affectionately bestowed upon their popular prince.
Leaping from the back of his horse, Icel laughed and threw his arms around the eorle. “Eofer! It's good to see you old friend.” The ætheling took a pace back and grinned happily. “The Britons sent me home to get you,” he quipped. “They said that life is a little too predictable now that they know that they can go to their rest each night, safe in the knowledge that they will not be awoken by the smell of smoke and the sound of clashing steel!” He glanced across to the shield wall and nodded in recognition. “Thrush, Imma, Octa, Osbeorn. I understand that you boys have been upsetting our neighbours.” They grinned in return and Icel clapped Eofer on the arm. “I learned most of the tale from your brother, Wulf, in Gippeswic before we left. You can tell me all the details as you fill me with ale this evening.” He laughed again and a look of pride and respect came into his eyes. “Burning Heorot! The tale has swept Anglia like a heath blaze.”
Satisfied that it was safe to do so, Astrid had led Weohstan into the courtyard and the boy waited patiently to be introduced to his lord. The ætheling noticed them and Eofer caught the boy's eye and beckoned him across.
Weohstan held Icel's gaze and his voice was strong and firm as he greeted his father's guest.
“My name is Weohstan Eofering. Welcome to my father's hall, lord.”
Icel smiled again. “I am happy to be here Weohstan. It would please me to bestow a gift on you. This thing has powerful spell-work, it has been searching for a man with a trim heart and a fearsome countenance such as yourself. What do you say, are you up to the task?”
The boy raised his chin and answered the prince as his proud parents looked on. “I am kinsman to kings, folctoga and eorles, I have dragon fire for blood, lord.”
Icel's face lit up at the reply, and he fished inside the purse which hung at his belt. Taking out a small stone he knelt beside the lad. “This is an elf-stone, have you seen one before?” Weohstan shook his head. “They are powerful things. They can protect the wearer from elf-shot and wiccecræft.” He held it up for the boy to peer through. “If you close one eye and look through the hole with the other, you can see if there are elves, goblins or orcs nearby.” Icel slowly moved the stone in an arc as the boy peered through. “Can you see any?” Weohstan shook his head. “No, lord.” Icel nodded. “Good we are safe. Woden himself turned into a snake and crawled through a hole in a mountain to gain the mead of poetry. As a reward for its help, the Allfather hallowed all holey stones. Guard it well Weohstan dragon blood, and it will take good care of you. It will help to keep you safe from deofols.”
Icel rose again as the boy proudly examined his gift and his gaze grew sombre. “I am afraid that I also have a far less pleasant duty.”
The smile fled from Astrid's face and she grimaced. “My cousin has fallen.”
Icel pulled a face. “It would appear so. The king heard the tale from a Frisian merchant, a man who has always proved to be reliable in the past.”
To the ætheling's astonishment Eofer and Astrid shared a smile. Astrid was the first to reply. “If Beowulf is dead, he sups in a far greater hall than we will this night. Did this merchant know the details of his death?”
As relief flooded through him, Icel found that he too was grinning. “We were told that he marched with just a few of his duguth into the midst of the victorious Frankish army and tore the heart from the man who killed your father, the king. The Franks were so impressed by his bravery and valour that they allowed him to leave unmolested, but he was later overtaken by a vengeful Frisian force and slain after a savage fight with the hearth troop of a Frisian warlord who styles himself The Dragon.
Eofer fixed Icel with a stare. “It would seem that I have a duty of honour to perform in Frisia.” To his surprise the ætheling shook his head. “A far greater thing awaits us, Eofer. Besides,” he added with a glance towards Astrid, “I am sure that King Heardred will be making plans to avenge both his father and his cousin as we speak. I rather suspect that this Dragon will soon feel the heat of an avenging Geatish flame.”
Brecc, the senior thræl, had ushered the ætheling's horses into the corral and the men of his troop were shouldering their shields and weapons as they sauntered across the yard. Icel unhooked his baldric and tossed it and the sword it contained to one of his men as he sought to lighten the mood. “Coelwulf tells me that you have a fast runner here, Eofer, a horse chaser no-less!”
Eofer nodded across to the shield wall. Relaxed and smiling happily now, his men perked up as they began to suspect that another race might be in the offing. “Grimwulf outpaced a horse at the midwinter festival,” he replied proudly.
Icel smiled. “It cost Coelwulf a gold ring I understand.” He looked at Eofer with a twinkle in his eye. “How would you like to win another? Let me see if I can pick out this thunderbolt from the ranks of your motley crew of cut-throats.” His eyes scanned the ranks of Eofer's youth as he searched for the most likely suspect. Suddenly his gaze alighted on Grimwulf and he smiled in triumph. “There he is!” The ætheling called across. “Harefoot, dress for war. Let's see how fast you are bearing arms. You can leave your sword off if you have one, but arm yourself with shield, spear, mail and helm.” He slipped a pair of gold arm rings from his forearm and tossed them to the ground. Gasps of admiration escaped the watching men as they realised the significance of the action. The rings were a work of wonder. Worked from a single rod of gold, each twist of the rings was highlighted with the delicate beading which the smiths called filigree. “One for you and one for your lord.” Grimwulf was clearly overcome at the thought of owning such a thing. As his new companions cheered him on the youth managed to drag his gaze away from the treasure in the dust. “What if I lose, lord?” he asked with a smile of innocence.
Icel looked confused for a moment before answering brightly. “Your lord gets to keep both rings of course, as compensation for your life.”
Icel leaned back from the bench and gently kneaded his belly with the tips of his fingers. “That was great pork.” He made a fist and pushed it firmly into his stomach until a belch eased the pressure. “I know that it is not as tender as deer or lamb but it is my favourite.” He scooped up the last piece of meat and popped it into his mouth with relish. “Lamb is nice and fatty, but you can only get it at Eostre, what good is that? That race did wonders for my appetite, I should try it more often.” He looked across to the place where Grimwulf was proudly showing off his arm ring. “Coelwulf was right, you have a sight hound there, he left me flou
ndering in his wake. Not many men can do that, it could be useful to you Eofer,” he said distantly. The ætheling's mind was clearly on other things and Eofer waited until his lord ordered his thoughts.
Icel, finally satisfied that the contents of his stomach were under control, leaned across and came to the point of his visit. “Everything has been moved forward, this attack on the Jutes will herald the start of the year of battles.” Eofer couldn't contain his surprise and the ætheling went on. “All the Heathobeard have accomplished with their hopeless attack on Daneland is to wake the monster from its winter slumber. King Ingeld is dead along with half of his warriors and Hrothgar is running around like a stallion with a hard on.” He chuckled softly and a smirk came to his face. “If it wasn't for you and your lads, he would have had Ingeld's king helm sitting atop the pile of plunder at the great victory feast in Heorot.” A glint came into his eye as he continued. “I would have loved to see his face when he returned to Hleidre and saw a pile of ash where his lovely hall had stood. Ten years sleeping in the women's bower and as soon as the monster is slain and he can use it again, some English bastard burns it down!” They shared a laugh and Eofer managed to splutter a reply. “I was very glad that I was not around when Hrothgar returned. It was the happiest sight which has ever greeted my eyes when I crested that last rise and saw Eadward and his snake ship.”
The sound of the wind outside grew as the door was opened, causing the pair to glance up from their cups. Eofer was pleased to see Rand and Finn take up their gar from the spear rack and disappear into the darkness. Within moments the chilled and windswept figures of Porta and Edwin quickly entered the hall, grinning their thanks as cups of warmed mead were thrust upon them. It was, Eofer reflected, a sign of the times that an Englishman could not feel completely safe within the walls of his own hall, even in the heart of the kingdom.
