by C. R. May
He paused as the men settled, turning his gaze to the men of the fyrd. “You men will relish the work we do more than most. King Eomær has discovered that a Jutish jarl named Wictgils invited the Danes to his hall at a place known simply as The Crossing, there to launch the raid which caused so much misery last autumn. This Wictgils,” he went on as the ceorls exchanged looks of excitement and determination, “thought it a good bargain to exchange horses and English lives for gold and silver. I know that, despite what he thought he had done at the time, he had made a bargain which would cost him his life.” Eofer paused again and lowered his voice for effect. “The faces I see before me now are not the faces of a cowed and beaten people. The heart of a bear beats within the breast of each and every Englishman be he king or ceorl. The time has come to take your vengeance for the nights and days you men spent chasing this wolf pack of Danes which had been flung into your midst, ever watchful of the sky lest a line of smoke tell the tale of another hall burned, another family slaughtered. Each man guiltily asking the gods to drive the raiders towards another man's family, sparing his own from their violence while he was away serving his lord and unable to protect them.” He looked at the faces of the fyrdmen and saw that most had lowered their gaze and knew it to be true. Judging the moment to be right, he slipped down the bank and walked among them. “I will not blame you if you did. But now you have the chance to repay the Jutes for their greed.” They followed him with their eyes and Eofer could see that the raid had taken on a deeper meaning. No longer were they riding merely out of a duty owed to king and ealdorman; a chance for plunder.
The young thegn took up a cup of ale from the ground and sank the contents. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he spoke again as the short sharp bark of a badger call drifted across to them from a nearby grove. “When Shining Mane returns to the East two days hence we take the blood-price for their treachery. Bring to mind the faces of the dead you buried and give thanks to the gods that they saw fit to make you spear men.”
TWENTY-TWO
Osbeorn pulled the heavy woollen cloak tighter and spoke in an undertone to the fyrdman. “Here friend, loan me that travelling hat for a while and I promise that you will have a tale to tell your grand bairns when you are old and grey.” Despite his confusion, the farmer whipped off his tatty old leather headpiece and held it forward. The duguth smiled his thanks and forced it onto his head. “A bit tight,” he said, “but it will do nicely.” His features now deep in the shadow cast by the wide brim, the ceorls caught the merest hint of a smile on the big warrior's face before he turned and was swallowed by the night.
Spearhafoc was waiting for him near the tree line, and she hauled her tunic over her head at his approach and draped it across a bush. Her upper body shone pale in the iron grey light of the pre-dawn, and Osbeorn pulled a face and tossed her a spear. “A bit scrawny, but you'll have to do, beadu-mægden. Your tits are pert at least,” he smirked. “Like little puppies.” Rolling her eyes, the youth slipped the bow over her head and rearranged the tawny feathers of the sparrowhawk fixed in her hair. “Can we get this over with?” she said, irritably. “There are a hundred and fifty men ogling this battle-maiden at the moment and her little puppies are freezing.”
The pair slipped from cover and set off along the road which led past the hall to the causeway. Osbeorn used the heavy gar as a staff, placing the heel deliberately as he went. He had borrowed the showy spear from his lord and, failing the timely arrival of a raven or two, it was the final piece of his hoped-for deception.
Eofer and Imma Gold had scouted the area as the war-band waited patiently on the reverse slope of the hill, readying weapons and nerves for the coming fight. Their thegn had returned with the encouraging news that it appeared that the Jutes felt safe enough in their own lands to leave a solitary warrior to guard the important crossing place. Nevertheless, Osbeorn's eyes flicked out to left and right as he closed on the warrior, now fully in view by the light of a brazier as he rose to challenge them. A gust of wind blew down the valley from the fjord away to the East, and Osbeorn's stomach churned as he felt the farmer's hat shift and lift from his head as the breeze got under the wide brim. Burying his chin to avert disaster, the English pair were past the dark outline of the hall and moving into the full light of the watchman's fire, and Osbeorn flicked his eyes up in time to see the moment when the lone Jute recognised the pair who had appeared suddenly from the shadows. He kept his voice low as he hailed the man, and fought to stifle a snigger as the warrior's jaw gaped and the blood drained from his features.
“The norns stand poised to snip your life-thread, War-Jute. Grip your sword hilt and my battle-maiden will guide you to my hall.”
Eofer's duguth fought against the overwhelming desire to increase his pace as the Jute did as the god bade him. The man must recover from his surprise soon, he knew, and he must not be allowed the chance to alert those in the nearby hall to the danger which was stealthily encircling them.
Osbeorn fixed his stare on the Jute's expression and the very instant that the man began to doubt the evidence of his own eyes the gar shot forward to pierce his throat.
“Isn't this the bit where an owl glides across the clearing and we all kiss our hammers and wonder at the portent?” Penda gripped Hemming's sleeve and gasped. “Thrush, you fool. There it is, look what you have done!” Hemming's smile fled as he dropped his eyes to scan the clearing at the foot of the hill. The others glanced away as they stifled a laugh at the fear which showed in his face. “Where? I can't see it.” Hemming turned back to be confronted with a circle of smirking warriors. “Oh, funny you lot are,” he sniffed. “Let's see how hard you laugh when Woden really does stride across the battlefield and taps you on the shoulder with his spear.”
Eofer returned from the tree line and took in the scene with a glance. “When you lads have finished having fun, I will start the war.”
“It's the right place then, lord?”
“Unless you know another hall which sits beside a half mile long causeway?” Eofer snapped irritably. “In which case, lead on Penda.”
The eorle's comment drew the humour from the moment as had been intended, and Eofer threw them an icy stare. “You men are the best of the best. Just because you have the experience and ability to fight your way out of almost any situation, it does not follow that every man who rode with us to this place has the same,” he hissed. “We have a hundred fyrdmen with us who have just discovered that they are to abandon their farms and move their families across the sea on the king's say-so.” He exhaled in a conscious attempt to calm his temper as the duguth grew shamefaced. “Let's keep on our toes,” he said as the anger left him. “The ætheling has chosen us from all the men of the northern Wolds to spearhead this attack. Let's show him that he was not mistaken in his choice.”
Hemming broke the ice as the others shifted uncomfortably. “Are there any more guards, lord?”
He shook his head. “None that we could see. But there is at least one dog in the courtyard. I have told the Allfather to stay by the causeway,” he joked as his mood began to lighten, “and returned the grateful wælcyrge's shirt and sent her to silence the hound. She'll kill it from distance with a single shot.”
Eofer untied the bindings known as peace bands from the hilt of Gleaming and the demeanour of the warriors changed instantly as they followed suit. The action had driven any thoughts of humour from the men and concentrated their minds on the fighting to come.
Penda spoke again. “It's to be a burning then, lord?”
Eofer nodded. “It may not be very honourable, but it is what this Wictgils and his Jutes deserve.” He glanced back into the shadows and saw that the leading men of the fyrd had come forward, waiting silently in groups to take their revenge. He spoke to the duguth again. “You heard these men describe the results of the Danish raid. The fire-blackened bodies of women reduced to the size of children by the heat of the flames, children shrivelled to little more than the size of bairns.”
Eofer indicated the fyrdmen with a flick of his head. “Go and gather your chicks and take up the positions you have been assigned.”
He peered to the East where the faintest line of light lay on the earth's rim. The timing was perfect and he looked back to the hall in the clearing below, checking the deep shadows for any movement which could indicate that the English war-band had been seen. As he watched, the shaft of an arrow cut the air but no noise came, and Eofer raised his eyes to take in his surroundings before the mayhem began as he came to realise that this would be the final time that an English here would gaze upon these lands.
The hall of Wictgils stood on a spur raised above the level of the water meadow. The roadway traced this firmer land, leading past the hall to the marsh and river beyond. A series of wooden causeways had been constructed to carry travellers to the nearby town which had grown up on an island at the head of the fjord, the shabby collection of huts and the nearby dark outlines of fishing boats drawn up on the strand telling the tale of the settlement's main reason for existence. Wictgils' hall was the only building of any note in sight, and it was plain to the English eorle that the stranglehold which his opponent had on The Crossing was absolute. The wide river valley snaked away inland, its floor a mishmash of water meadows, swamps and ponds, studded with stands of alder and goat willow. Away to the North the jagged edge of the tree covered hills was hardening by the moment as Shining Mane hauled her charge from the East. It was time to strike.
Eofer turned and raised his spear. Already slick and bloodstained from Osbeorn's attack on the lone guard, the leaf-shaped blade glimmered as the first of the day's light crept along the valley sides to penetrate the canopy. Within moments the first men appeared over the crest of the ridge, flaming brands held low in a final effort at concealment. Hemming came up and handed a torch to his lord as the lights cascaded down through the shadows like a meteor shower.
Emerging from the tree line, the duguth led the youth and their allotted ceorls to left and right as they doubled across the track to encircle the hall.
Eofer glanced across to Osbeorn, still holding his position at the head of the causeway, and was pleased to see that the youth, Porta and Edwin, were hurrying across with a dozen of the fyrd to buttress the position there. Spearhafoc appeared from the rear of the hall, an arrow nocked and ready to loose, and despite the urgency of the moment Eofer took the time to nod to her in thanks. No yelp of pain or warning bark had broken the stillness of the dawn air to send the inhabitants within the hall reaching for their weapons, and he noticed the body of the animal in the dust, a single shaft passing through its head as a dark stain of blood pooled beneath it.
The hall was much like his own had been before he had reduced it to a pile of ash and blackened beams. Its north-south orientation was sensible in its exposed position, helping to reduce the effects of the harsh winter winds and hot summer sun. Wisps of vapour rose into the chill morning air from the great ridge line of the roof, as the returning sun lanced down the fjord to warm the age-blackened thatch.
Eofer pointed with his spear as eager faces turned his way. “There.”
Hemming and Penda drew up facing the heavy oak door and the hearth troop formed up to either side, raising their shields to form a wall as scores of the fyrdmen gathered to their rear. Secure in the knowledge that Wictgils' hall held only the single entrance, Eofer strode around the perimeter of the hall, placing knots of his youth backed up by a dozen men of the fyrd at intervals around the walls. Returning to the long front wall, he nodded to himself in satisfaction as he saw the mass of English warriors assembled there and the look of determination on their faces. Exchanging a look of determination of his own with the men of the combined hearth troops, he hefted his shield and took up the position of ord, the very tip of the formation. The sun had cleared the horizon to the East and its steely light had moved down to paint the door as he motioned with his spear. Several fyrdmen had been tasked with removing the thatch from a small boathouse which squatted near the causeway, and they hurried forward to pile the tinder against the door as the first signs of movement inside came to their ears. Transferring his spear to his shield hand, Eofer took the brand from Hemming and tossed it into the kindling. Fronds of flame appeared as the fire took hold, and Eofer moved forward to call on the owner of the hall.
“Wictgils!”
At the sound of their leader's summons, those men brandishing torches moved around the hall, touching flame to the eves before tossing the brands high up on to the thatch. As the fire took hold and dirty black smoke began to billow into the rapidly lightening sky, the sound of frenzied movement came from within the hall as the Jutish warriors there rushed to their arms. Within moments the door was pulled inward by an unseen hand and a voice answered from the gloom.
“I am Wictgils. Who seeks to burn me in my own hall?”
Eofer stepped forward and swung his shield up. It was not unknown for an arrow to fly from the shadows in such a situation and he was aware of Spearhafoc moving into position to cover him, a shaft nocked and ready to loose in a heartbeat. Despite the smoke which was being drawn into the building through the open door, Eofer could see the glint of mail and arms within as the warriors there clustered about their lord. The sun was directly behind the English, their long shadows stretching to fill the space before them, and Eofer felt a stab of satisfaction, confident now that the low orb must be blinding to those within.
“I am Eofer Wonreding, known as king's bane, an English thegn. I have been sent by King Eomær to repay a debt.”
The muffled sound of choking came from those within the doorway as the smoke thickened, but Wictgils answered clearly. “Your king owed me nothing before you burned my hall. Let us come out and defend ourselves or promise to build me another and I will let you go, king's bane.”
Eofer snorted at the man's bluster. “You are in no position to make demands, Jute. You brought this fate upon yourself when you sold English lives for Danish silver. My king has learnt of the part which you played in the raids last autumn and I have been sent as the instrument of his vengeance.”
The sound of urgent muttering carried from the hall despite the increasing roar of the flames there. Eofer risked a quick glance at the roof. The fire had taken a firm grip now and flames and smoke were cleaving the ridge line like the bow wave of a ship.
“Let my people come out, king's bane, and I will accept my wyrd is to die here.”
A low growl came from the fyrdmen and Eofer recognised that the men there were in no mood to take pity on the inhabitants of the hall, be they woman, bairn or thræl.
“The men at my back spent blood-month chasing a murderous band of Danes about the Wolds. Hall burning Danes; Danes who were moving too fast to take captives.” He hawked and spat in disgust. “These men spent the time of sacrifices raking through embers to retrieve the little which the flames had not consumed of their loved ones and neighbours. I sense no desire within them to forgive the man who sold their lives for a casket of silver, nor his own people. I doubt that they refused the profit from your deal, they can share the cost.”
Eofer narrowed his eyes as he saw a flicker of movement within the hall and he braced as the door was suddenly dragged inwards. Drawing Gleaming from its scabbard with a sweep of his arm, he cried out a command to the men behind as he realised what was about to happen.
“Daroth!”
A heartbeat later a huge warrior burst through the smoke and flames screaming his war-cry. As Eofer moved forward a shadow passed across the pair as the throwing spears he had ordered released arced across, inches from his head. The darts fell in a concentrated pattern within the doorway just as Wictgils' hearth-warriors emerged into the light. With the rising sun full in their faces and the thick smoke curling about them the Jutes failed to see the danger, and within moments their charge had faltered as the doorway was blocked by a bloodied heap and burning thatch. Eofer swung at the Jute hoping to catch him before he settled, but the warrior parried the blow with
his shield and stabbed back with his sword. The strike was well made and Eofer twisted his neck to one side as the blade slid by only inches away. Both men had failed to connect in the opening moves and they withdrew as if by mutual consent and began to circle warily. The eorle spoke as he sought to confirm that the man he faced was the jarl and unnerve him at the same time. “Wictgils?” The man gave a curt nod, never taking his eye from the Englishman's sword, and Eofer immediately knew that the Jute would be a tough opponent. He sailed a different tack as he sought an advantage. “I think that I can hear your woman calling you.”
The terror filled screams of women and girls were coming from the hall as those trapped within realised that there was to be no escape for them. Above the doomed occupants the roof line sagged as the flames ate into the structure, and a sudden whoo-mph told both men that part had collapsed inward in a gout of flames and wildly spinning sparks.
A look of anguish was quickly extinguished as a flash of cold hatred swept Wictgils' face. The jarl lunged forward instinctively, but Eofer skipped aside as an animal bellowed in fear and the heat intensified.
He cocked an ear. “Yes, I think that I can hear her,” he smiled with a savagery which, in truth, he did not feel. It was a necessary act of war which he could not deny those who had suffered a similar fate at the hands if the Danes. Had it not been for the greed of the man who now stood before him there were fyrdmen present who would still have families of their own, and he knew that no feelings of pity would cloud his thoughts if Astrid and Weohstan had suffered such a fate.
The Jute's eyes flared, and a snarl swept across his features as he made the wild lunge which Eofer hoped that his goading would produce. Twisting past the blade, Eofer rolled his wrist, pulling Gleaming low with a backhanded sweep which bit deeply into Wictgils' calf. The man let out a roar of pain and frustration that he had allowed Eofer's provocation to draw him into a rash attack, and he settled back into a fighting stance as Eofer risked a quick glance at the results of his handiwork.
