by C. R. May
A long ragged tear had been cut into the rear of Wictgils' trews, and the bindings which gathered them were hanging loose where they too had been cut, dragging on the ground and threatening to trip the Jute at every step. Below the slash Eofer could see that the cloth was blood-soaked, and both men knew that the strike would soon prove debilitating as the muscle stiffened and the blood loss began to tell. Experience gained on the battlefields of the North told both men that time was now against the Jute, and Eofer withdrew a pace and let his opponent come on.
Seeing his lord injured spurred a warrior to brave the furnace-like flames which gripped the doorway. The blazing form caught Eofer's eye as it emerged, bellowing its death cry, but two arrows flew in quick succession and Eofer discounted the threat, confident in his youth's prowess with her chosen weapon. As several spears flew overhead to finish the job, Wictgils made his move. Certain now that he was to die here, alone in the shadow of his burning hall, the Jute suddenly launched his shield at the Engle. Taken unawares, Eofer was too late to dodge aside and the iron rim of the board slammed into his midriff. In a heartbeat Wictgils was upon him, gripping his sword in both hands and bringing it down in a mighty sweep. Winded by the shield strike Eofer instinctively pulled his own blade across, deflecting the blow. As the heavy blade glanced off the side of his helm to bury its tip in the dust, the energy of the attack carried Wictgils onward and Eofer seized his chance. Flicking Gleaming upright he gripped the hilt tightly, bracing the blade as the Jute's unstoppable momentum delivered the jarl's death wound. Eofer watched as Wictgils' eyes widened in horror as he saw what must follow, but he was powerless to avoid his fate as the sword tip met his chest. A moment of resistance and Eofer felt the links of Wictgils' mail shirt buckle and give way as the man's great size told against him. The ancestral blade slipped easily into his the jarl's chest, and Eofer rolled away as the man fell to the ground and a tortured rattle escaped his throat.
The eorle sprang to his feet as the watching warriors roared their acclaim at his victory over the Jutish giant, but the shouts of triumph began to trail away and Eofer saw to his surprise that Wictgils had raised himself to his knees. The jarl spat a huge gobbet of blood at the English shield wall in a last act of defiance as Eofer walked across. With a final scowl at the cause of so much pain and loss in his homeland he placed his foot on the man's shoulder, and the jarl gritted his teeth against the pain as the eorle reclaimed the bloody blade. Eofer's eyes moved up to Wictgils' helm and he saw the dancing warriors which marked the man as a member of the wolf brotherhood. Their eyes met, and the Englishman indicated the Jute's sword with a flick of his eyes. Relief swept the jarl's features as he reached forward with the last of his strength and his bloody fingers curled around the hilt. It was the final act of a dying man. Eofer took a pace back as a crimson flow gushed from Wictgils' lips, and a pink froth bubbled from his wound as the air from his punctured lung mixed with his life blood.
As the jarl slumped at his feet, Eofer turned to the men of the fyrd and called out above the roaring of the flames. “Any man who suffered loss in the autumn raids. Now is the moment to wet your spears with the blood of the man who caused your grief.”
TWENTY-THREE
Imma feinted left with his spear and the Jute whipped his shield across to cover his flank. As quick as a whip the spear was straightened and jabbed into the man's groin. He fell with a scream and Imma withdrew the blade and jabbed again. Watching from the riverbank his lord pursed his lips and nodded. It was good work. The latest attack was faltering and the English jeered as their fiend moved their shields to the sides and backed warily away from the spear-hedge. A momentarily exposed knee was instantly punished as an arrow flew across the gap to add to the injured, but even as his friends moved to cover the warrior and help him hobble back to the safety of the town, Eofer knew that it was unlikely that any other shafts would follow.
The day had been long, and he knew that the supply of arrows left available to the bowmen was dwindling fast. He squinted up at the sun as it rolled across the sky to the South. It was now late afternoon and the English force had watched as men came from the North to fill the bank opposite ever since word had spread of their attack. Alerted by the great column of greasy black smoke which had boiled up from the hall and its doomed inhabitants, the Jutes had been gathering in numbers since mid morning.
Eofer turned to Octa as they swigged from their water skins. “How many do you think there are?”
His duguth puffed out his cheeks as he gazed across the river from his place on the log. “A hundred? Could be more,” he volunteered. “They are only the ones we can see. There could be as many again hidden by the shacks over there. What I want to know,” he continued with a sidelong glance, “is what they are hoping to gain by making these half-arsed attacks.”
Eofer reached forward and picked up a short stick from the ground. Smoothing a patch of dust with his foot he marked out a long straight line. “This is the river before us and here we are,” he said as he stabbed the centre of the line. “Over here,” he said, reaching across to his left, “there is another causeway across the marshland. It's about a dozen miles inland but its even longer than the one in front of us. It's the only good crossing place for miles around so of course it carries The Oxen Way. That's where Penda led the dozen riders you saw leave earlier.”
Octa nodded that he understood. “The very road which we need to use to return home,” he muttered. “They are keeping us busy here so they can throw an army across and cut us off.” He pulled a pained expression. “That doesn't sound too healthy, lord. If I didn't know better I might have suggested that we make tracks while we still can. But of course,” he grinned, “there is a loki-cunning scheme which I am as yet unaware of.”
Eofer laughed at his friend's description. If all went well, Haystack's plan was worthy of the trickster god. He looked up and whistled as Imma Gold walked back from the causeway and one of Wonred's duguth replaced him as ord. Imma skirted the old guards' shelter and jogged across. “I was about to explain to Octa what I hope will come next,” Eofer said as he came up, “now that we have repaid Wictgils for his part in the Danish raids.”
He looked across to the men of the fyrd. Driven by a steady breeze which blew in from the nearby fjord, the majority of Wictgils' hall had quickly become an angry blaze, the flames licking at the nearby tree line as they were driven to the West. By mid morning all that remained had been the heavier oak beams of the frame itself, and the fyrdmen had delighted in attaching ropes to their horses and bringing them down in a cloud of ash. Ever since then they had been raking through the debris, and the pile of silver and gold, twisted and molten into unrecognisable shapes by the heat, which had steadily grown had surprised even Eofer. Obviously he had mused, the Danes paid well, and he had promised to share out the spoils equally among the men of the fyrd like any worthy lord. Now that the silver had been collected and retribution visited on the Jutish jarl the ceorls were looking increasingly eager to be away. He threw the stick to the ground and pulled himself to his feet.
“It will be dark in what, two hours?”
The pair glanced across to the West and nodded in agreement.
“I'll let them think that they have succeeded in holding us here, but as soon as it is fully dark we leave. We have given the thegns a full day to muster their fyrdmen,” he said. “We will let them believe that they are chasing us south.”
“I'll remain as a rearguard with a few men,” Octa volunteered. “Otherwise they will be across the causeway and on our tails before we know it. It's a long ride home lord, and we have no remounts.” Eofer nodded his agreement. “Imma, I want you to take a couple of men and ride to Penda. Double back to The Oxen Way and head north, you'll be there within the hour. Stay with him and leave this other causeway at dusk. Meet us at the place where you joined the road and we'll head back south together.”
A flurry of activity drew their attention across to the smoking pile which was all that remained of
Wictgils' hall. The fyrdmen there had stopped raking through the last of the ashes and were peering back along the road. Within moments the reason for their interest hove into view and Eofer exchanged a look with his men. “It looks like our plans may be about to change,” he muttered.
They walked across to the roadway and waited for the rider to clatter to a halt. The horse's flanks glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, and the flaring of its nostrils told the men that it had been ridden hard. Eofer waited patiently as the rider slipped from his saddle and came up.
“There is a large force of Jutes approaching down The Oxen Way, lord. We couldn't see the end of the column but judging by the number of banners at its head it must be a large one.”
Eofer nodded that he understood. “Could you see what the banners were. Did you get an idea of the composition of this army, Frithgar?”
“The White Horse, hildbeacn of the Jutes flies at its head.”
Eofer's eyes widened in surprise. “King Osea is here?”
“And at least two of their jarls, lord,” Frithgar added. “We saw the war-banners of Hrethmund and Heorogar tucked in behind that of the king.”
“And Penda?” Eofer probed. “What are his plans?”
Frithgar licked his lips as he struggled to reply. The mad dash and the dust of the road had robbed his mouth of moisture and he smiled gratefully as Octa handed him his water skin. Taking a mouthful he swilled it gratefully and swallowed. “Penda is out of sight in a grove of alder. He said that he would remain there until the Jutes began to move across the causeway and then return here unless he receives word that we have already left for the South.”
A great roar made them look across to the town, and the Englishmen could see the Jutish warriors there waving spears; beating their shields as they stared away to the West. The road which led away to link up with The Oxen Way followed the line of higher, dryer ground there and was visible from the northern bank. It could only mean one thing, and Eofer's fears were confirmed a moment later as Penda led his band from the cover of the trees and into the clearing.
Eofer's mind raced as he scanned the meadow for a place to draw up his troop. Like any good war leader, the eorle had already scouted out a sound defensive position to fall back upon if a hostile force came against them in numbers. A mile or so to the east of the meadow the land began to rise in a series of gentle hills. One of them was steeper than the others and, hemmed in on either side by dense woodland, the crest of the hill was perfect for his needs. As he was about to give the order to mount up Penda reached him, and Eofer's heart sank at the concern he saw there.
“Scouts are right behind me and the king not far behind them, riding hard.”
“How long do we have?”
Penda slipped from the saddle and unhooked his shield. “Just time for a piss if you are quick.” Slipping his hand into the grip, he slapped his horse on the rump and the animal trotted away. Turning back the duguth rolled his shoulders, warming muscles as he prepared himself for war. “Where do you want me, lord?”
Knowing now that he would never reach the ridge line he had hoped to defend, Eofer's eyes were already scouring the meadow for any sign of a feature which would give him the edge in a fight but, he had to admit to himself, the search looked to have been in vain. The roadway crossed from the town opposite and came straight on for a hundred yards or so before arcing away where it reached the tree line and following the line of the valley to the West. The land rose in a gentle gradient as it approached the wood, so a shield wall anywhere on the meadow would face an enemy charging downhill. He considered forming a barrier using the charred timbers from the hall as a bulwark but quickly discounted it. They were out of time, and he made the only sensible choice available.
“Fall back on the causeway.” He turned to his duguth. “Gather the best of the youth and take them onto the bridge like you said. Octa,” he continued as he held the man's gaze, “hold that position, whatever they throw against you. I will try to send you further help when we know what we are facing, but you must keep those in the town from attacking our rear.”
Octa nodded and rushed off to round up his chosen companions as Eofer anxiously flicked a look up at the place where the Jutes would emerge from the tree cover. A brace of culver rose into the air with a clatter and coasted away to the north. Any man who had hunted knew that wood pigeons were easily spooked, and the sight caused a look of alarm to spread among the group. Eofer knew the fiend were upon them, and he hurried across to retrieve his own shield as he called to the duguth. “Arm yourselves, quickly. Form yourselves into a screen about the entrance to the causeway!”
Looking across to the remains of the hall he saw to his horror that the fyrdmen were still standing in groups, discussing the goings on as if they were at a summer fair. He cupped his hand to his mouth as he ran and bellowed an order. “Fyrd! Grab your weapons and fall back on the bridge, now!”
As he did so the first of the enemy burst into view at the head of the meadow and, seeing the men spread out before them, kicked in their heels and came on at a gallop. Screaming their war cries, the Jutes were lowering their spears before most of the men had realised that their enemy had arrived, and within a heartbeat the Jutes were among them. Stabbing out to left and right, the horsemen wheeled and turned as the terrified ceorls scattered like startled deer towards the river. Eofer drew Gleaming and shouted across to Hemming as he pounded towards the fight. “Thrush!” He saw his duguth begin to draw his own sword and call to others before he turned his attention back to the fight.
Despite the ferocity of the Jutish attack the fyrdmen had begun to recover, and dozens were now fighting back as the riders dropped their spears, pulling swords from scabbards as they slashed down at shoulders and heads. Very few ceorls wore anything more than a toughened leather cap as protection; a shirt of mail was far beyond the means of even the wealthiest. Once the enemy swords had cut through the shaft of their spears the men would be helpless, and Eofer discarded his shield in order to close with the fighting as quickly as he could.
A horseman broke free from the crush and wheeled his mount, swinging his blade above his head as he prepared to re-enter the fray. Eofer was upon him before he could strike again, Gleaming taking the man in the small of the back as the eorle gripped the blade with both hands and brought it across in a powerful sweep. Like all scouts the man wore no mail or heavy armour and Eofer felt his spine snap as Gleaming bit deeply.
Before the Jute had fallen from his saddle, Eofer was past him. Another was there, the horse wide-eyed in the din, and he drove his sword into its great chest and withdrew the bloody blade and ducked away. As the horse screamed in terror and staggered, Eofer parried a powerful downward strike from its rider as the man began to tumble from its back. He became aware that bodies were clustering around him and the thegn raised his sword to strike out before he froze as he saw that it was the men of the fyrd rallying to his side. He had become an island in the fighting, a focal point within the chaos as the men of the fyrd rushed to form a spear burh about their lord.
The attack began to falter as the resistance increased and Eofer looked across as Hemming arrived with more seasoned warriors to bolster their position. He watched in admiration as the big man feinted a strike on a rider only to duck beneath the belly of his mount. Light flashed on steel as Hemming struck, rolling away on the far side as ropes of blueish entrails slipped to the grass in a steaming mess.
The leader of the scouts had seen enough, and Eofer watched as he pulled a horn from his battle-shirt and sounded a long shrill note. Immediately the remaining riders spurred their mounts away, revealing a battleground littered with the bloodied bodies of men and horses.
As the Jutes reformed at the head of the meadow, Eofer looked about him. A quick tally told him that seven of the fyrd had paid for their bravery with their lives while at least a further three were carrying wounds of varying severity. Four of the scouts lay dead, three beside the bodies of their mounts, and Eofer nodded i
n grim satisfaction, it could have been a lot worse. If all of the ceorls had broken and run they would have been cut down from behind before the warriors could come to their aid. The meadow would have become a killing ground, robbing him of a good part of his force before the fighting had even begun.
The fyrdmen were looking to him for direction and he gave them a smile of encouragement. “Well fought, lads. We gave them a bloody nose.” The faces surrounding him brightened immediately at the praise from their leader and he indicated the causeway with a jerk of his head. “Quickly, gather up any weapons and take yourselves across to the bridge. Penda is forming a shield wall there.”
As they moved away Hemming came across, wiping the blood from his blade on a fistful of grass. The pensive look on his weorthman's features told the eorle that it would take far more than a few words of comfort to reassure the grizzled veteran that all would be well.
“We've already lost the horses,” he sniffed. “We should have brought them down here sooner.”
Eofer's face twisted into a grimace at the warrior's thinly veiled criticism. He was right of course. The horses had been left at the top of the meadow while the hall blazed to destruction. No animal is comfortable around flames and Wictgils' hall had roared like a dragon in the steady breeze which had blown in from the sea. Later he had allowed himself to become distracted by the fighting at the causeway and he had forgotten to order their mounts brought down to them. It was a simple mistake but one which could very easily now cost them their lives, and he acknowledged the fact with a nod. “You're right. It was my mistake but it is done now.”
The Jutish scouts suddenly cried out in acclaim, raising their bloodied weapons aloft as the first of their main force emerged from the forest edge and trotted across their front. Moments later, Eofer and Hemming watched as King Osea broke cover and moved to the centre of the slope beneath the white horse hildbeacn of Juteland. The jarls, Hrethmund and Heorogar moved to either flank of their king as horsemen held their own banners at their side, and the group walked their mounts down the slope as the trees to the west spewed forth a tide of mailed warriors.
