Isangrim stood. He pulled his son up with him. The old man was surprisingly strong. His arms came around in a bear hug.
‘Dernhelm,’ he whispered. ‘My gentle, beautiful, long-lost boy.’
‘Father.’
Isangrim stepped back, let go one of Ballista’s hands, lifted the other high, turning him to face those assembled.
‘My son is returned.’ The voice of the cyning carried to the furthest reaches of the hall, out through the still-open doors to the crowd that had assembled. ‘The youngest, but far from the least of my sons. Dernhelm, the much-travelled. Dernhelm, whom the Romans call Ballista. Dernhelm, the Angle who defeated the Persians and who overthrew an emperor and took the throne of the Romans.’
While the cheering continued, Isangrim gestured for Oslac to move along, so Ballista could sit beside the throne. Ballista scooped up his helmet, placed it on his knee, tried to look impassive. The cyning remained standing.
‘My people, our allies, the Allfather has brought the atheling Dernhelm back for the coming war. Have the duelling-ground prepared. Let us see which side the gods will favour.’
A cloth, six paces by six, was spread on the level ground before the hall. Its edges were pinned down with sprigs of hazel. It was ringed with armed warriors.
The Bronding had been given full war gear. The other prisoner taken at the Nerthus ceremony helped him prepare.
One of the men assisting Morcar was bald, but Ballista recognized him as Glaum, son of Wulfmaer. Morcar had aged better than his friend. The other was very young, well short of twenty winters. It had to be Morcar’s son, Mord.
‘What are you doing here?’ There was no friendship in Oslac’s question.
‘A man has to be somewhere,’ Ballista said.
Morcar and the Bronding stood on the cloth. Each had a sword and shield.
The crowd was still with expectancy.
As was right, Morcar, as the challenger, waited for the first blow.
The Bronding leapt forward, swinging a mighty blow. It cut through the leather rim of Morcar’s shield, splitting the linden boards to near the boss. As he staggered sideways with the impact, Morcar violently twisted his shield, hoping to pull his opponent’s sword out of his hand, if not break it. The Bronding hauled his blade out and swung again. A thick wedge of wood flew from Morcar’s shield.
‘Stop! New shield!’ Morcar shouted.
Convention just held. With evident reluctance, the Bronding drew back, lowered his sword point to the cloth. A warrior took Morcar’s ruined shield, handed him a new one. Like the last, it had a red cover and a spiked metal boss.
As soon as Morcar hefted the shield, the Bronding surged in again. This time Morcar met it with his shield at a different angle. The steel merely scraped away some dyed leather and a few splinters.
The Bronding pressed home his attack. His sword moved so quickly it was as if there were three in the air. He drove Morcar this way and that. Yet every time Morcar was almost trapped in a corner, he riposted and stepped clear. Soon Morcar’s shield was so hacked he had to call for another.
Both men stood panting as Morcar’s third and final shield was brought. Some in the crowd murmured unhappily at the passivity of their champion. Others said he was letting the Bronding wear himself out. Ballista was not sure that was the case. Defending was tiring also. More likely, Morcar was playing with his opponent’s thoughts, exhausting his hope. Again and again the Bronding attacked, but he had yet to land a blow.
Morcar lifted the new red shield. The Bronding launched another full-blooded swing. It went differently this time. Morcar moved inside the blow, and past. His sword flicked out, caught the Bronding’s exposed left leg. A line of blood appeared.
If Morcar had been quicker, he could have finished it then, while his opponent’s back was unguarded. The Bronding rallied. They went at it again. Now Morcar attacked — thrusting, jabbing, cutting — working his man around the cloth. In one of the exchanges Morcar nicked the Bronding’s sword arm. When the foreigner attacked, sometimes Morcar watched the blade, did not move his feet but just swayed back out of harm’s way.
‘Rest,’ called the Bronding.
Morcar backed off.
A new shield was passed to the Bronding as they paused. He nodded. They fell to again.
The Bronding was moving heavily, but he was not done yet. He smashed a cut, rending Morcar’s shield. The Angle reeled back. His sword stayed up, but he flexed his shield arm as if it were troubling him. The Bronding saw his advantage. With renewed vigour he closed in, cutting left and right. Morcar gave ground, meeting the blows with his blade, shield arm hanging near immobile.
With skill the Bronding took a thrust on the edge; steel rang. He rolled his wrist. Morcar’s sword was forced wide, leaving his chest open for the killing blow. Before it came, as if miraculously cured, Morcar’s shield arm whipped up. The iron spike of the boss punched into the Bronding’s face. Almost too quick to follow, Morcar sank to one knee and cut the man’s thigh open to the bone.
The Bronding was down, curled in his pain and blood. Morcar stood over him.
‘Victory!’ Morcar shouted. ‘This is the will of the gods.’ He lifted his blade to the sky.
The crown roared their approval. ‘Out! Out! Out!’
A lone voice cut through the chanting. ‘Finish him!’
The noise of the crowd faltered.
Isangrim stepped on to the cloth. ‘Finish him.’
With contemptuous ease, Morcar killed the Bronding, flicked his blood from his sword. It rained on the stained, crumpled cloth.
‘The gods favour our cause,’ Isangrim said. ‘The other Bronding can take the news to Unferth.’
The cyning held up his hand to cut off the renewed celebration.
‘This will be a cruel war. It may be a long war. Let no one enter into it lightly. No move is to be made until it has been discussed by the Himlings and the eorls, and approved by me. Any man who endangers his companions, endangers us all, by acting without my sanction will be outlawed.’
The Angles accepted the prudent words of their theoden with silence.
‘Before the war council, we must return to Hlymdale, and bury the noble Heoroweard.’
The Island Of Hedinsey
Kadlin stood with Heoroweard’s family: his widow Wealtheow, his son Hathkin, his younger sister Leoba, and her own children, his nephew Aethelgar and niece Aelfwynn. It was a gentle, early summer’s day. The air smelt of recently turned soil, fresh-cut wood, and woodsmoke.
The funeral procession emerged between the great, grassy barrow of Himling and the empty cenotaph of Hjar. Smoke rose from the treasure-fires which were always tended on top of the mounds under which the cynings lay.
Everything had been done properly. That morning Kadlin had gone with Wealtheow to the house of the dead at the edge of the cemetery. The body had been washed and dressed, placed in the oak coffin. The physical work had been done by slaves. Heoroweard had been dreadfully cut about, and he had been dead for some time; directing their ministrations had not been easy. Wealtheow had been strong. With no hesitation, she had placed in her dead husband’s cold mouth the hacked piece of gold that would pay Heimdall, so that the watchman of the gods would allow Heoroweard passage across Bifrost to Asgard.
Everything was ready. The grave was well furnished with expensive things from the imperium: two buckets and a ladle in bronze, two fine glass cups, one with the image of some imaginary big, spotted cat, and a wallet of coins bearing the heads of long-dead emperors. The grave goods were suitable for a warrior of the Wuffingas. They would have been quite acceptable for one of the Himlings themselves.
Heoroweard had never cared particularly for material things. Wealtheow had added things more to his liking: a leather bag stuffed with lamb chops, flatbread and apples; next to it, a big flask of mead.
Allfather, but Kadlin would miss her brother.
The coffin was shouldered by ten men. Paunch-Shaker had been a big man. Behind
the deceased came the cyning Isangrim, then the rest of the Himlings: Oslac, Morcar with his son, Mord, and then, a little apart, Dernhelm.
Kadlin would not think about Dernhelm now. To do so would somehow tarnish her grief.
The cortège reached the grave.
Dernhelm had been Heoroweard’s friend. It was right he was here, but Kadlin wished he was not. She had not looked at him yet. What did it matter how he had changed? Her brother was dead.
The bearers, all strong young men, were struggling to lower the coffin into the grave. The ropes tore at their palms. The coffin swayed in its descent.
‘Just as awkward in death,’ Wealtheow murmured.
All the family smiled, except Leoba. Perhaps, Kadlin thought, a woman has to suppress too much to become a shield-maiden. Or it could be her sister blamed herself for not saving their brother. All at once Kadlin both pitied and envied her sister. It would be good to be a shield-maiden and take revenge on those who had set the murderers on her brother.
The coffin was in the grave. The bearers had retrieved the ropes. The family were on one side, the spoil from the digging on the other. Isangrim, the Himlings and their followers stood at one end. The other mourners — his hearth-companions, more distant relatives, friends and, finally, free tenants — drifted around the heap of earth to the other.
‘Allfather, listen to the request of your descendant.’ Isangrim seemed to have shrugged off something of his age. ‘Heoroweard died a heroic death, fighting barehanded against murderous men with sharp steel in their hands. He fought to protect his loved ones and his people. He did not die like a dog in the smoke of his own hearth. No straw-death, but the death of a hero. Send the Choosers of the Slain. Let them take him to Valhalla. He was my eorl, let him become yours.’
There was something awful about these Himlings, Kadlin thought. They naturally saw themselves as akin to the gods. A couple of clicks of the Norns’ spindles those years ago, the Wuffingas would have ruled, and the Himlings served them.
‘Heoroweard was …’ Isangrim moved into a lengthy speech of praise, no doubt heartfelt enough.
There was movement in the people behind Isangrim. Two strangers were working their way to the front. Kadlin’s irritation turned to alarm when she saw the gryphon-head brooches which proclaimed them Heathobards. Allfather, not again. Not like at the Nerthus ceremony.
The Heathobards stopped by Dernhelm. One of them whispered to him. He made a gesture that said, ‘Later.’ The Heathobard took his sleeve, spoke urgently. Dernhelm nodded. He blew a kiss to the coffin, looked at Heoroweard’s family, and bowed. For a moment his eyes met Kadlin’s. Then he turned. Followed by a shorter warrior with the end of his nose missing, Dernhelm walked away.
Kadlin could not have been more angry. A typical Himling, putting his own concerns before everything, even a funeral. The same selfishness as before. He had taken her virginity, fathered her child, and left; all without caring. Now he could not even wait until the end of his friend’s funeral. If she had to speak to him at the funeral feast, she was not sure she could contain herself.
In her fury, Kadlin had not noticed Isangrim had stopped speaking. The cyning took a gold band from his arm and dropped it into the grave. Hathkin was first of the family to make a last offering: an amber gaming piece. It was heart-rending to remember father and son sitting together playing. When it was her turn, Kadlin dropped in the bone comb Heoroweard had seldom used as a child. Her brother had always been untidy. Wealtheow was last. She gave back the ring Heoroweard had given to her.
As they moved off to the feast, above the muted talk Kadlin could hear the awful finality of stones and soil rattling on the lid of the coffin.
XXVI
The Ouiadoua Bank off the Southern Shore of the Suebian Sea
Maximus kept close behind Ballista and the Heathobard who was guiding them. It never failed to surprise him how quietly the big Angle could move in the dark. By contrast, those following behind were like a herd of bullocks. Still, the wind from the sea was loud in the trees. It would take the noise off behind them, away from the men they were approaching.
It had been a wild thirty-six hours since the Heathobards had brought them the news. They had slipped away from Heoroweard’s funeral and ridden down to the port. While Castricius had rounded up the crew, got the Warig fitted out for the sea, Maximus had gone with Ballista to see Ceola. It had not been an easy meeting. The young duguo charged with the defence of the coast was Morcar’s man. He had been sitting drinking with his father Godwine. The old eorl was not close to Morcar, but it was evident he had no great love for Ballista either. As luck would have it, Ivar Horse-Prick was drinking with them. In the end, Horse-Prick had made them see the urgency. Isangrim would be caught up in the funeral feast for the remainder of the day. It could not be discussed in the council of the cyning until the next morning. By then the opportunity would be lost. Eorl Godwine had announced that neither he nor his son would hinder their departure. Weightily, he had pointed out the threat of outlawry they were bringing on their heads. He and his son might feel the displeasure of the cyning, but it would pass. Isangrim was a fair ruler. He had said nothing specific about those who failed to stop men who acted without his sanction.
Ivar Horse-Prick had accompanied Maximus and Ballista to the ship. When the three had gone aboard, they had found that Castricius had her ready. Food and water had been stowed, all clutter cleared away. The men were armed and waiting at their benches. Zeno, Amantius and the slaves had been left ashore. With no commotion, they had cast off, and soon left the coast of Hedinsey behind.
The wind had shifted that morning and set in the north. It had blown steadily on their larboard quarter as Wada the Short held their course to the south-east. They had sailed the rest of the day and through the night. At some point the next day they had sighted the chalky cliffs of Cape Arcona. Knowing the rocky spit which ran below the surface to the east, Wada the Short had given Arcona a good berth. The light had been failing when they reached the great Ouiadoua Bank, pulled into one of its many inlets and hauled the Warig up on to the fine, white sand.
The Ouiadoua Bank was a desolate place, a disputed march between the Heathobards and the Farodini. The Heathobard had led them away from the sea, around in a long detour, to come up from the south on their prey. They had been walking through the darkness for at least three hours. Maximus had slept only a little on the voyage. He knew he should feel tired, but he did not. The prospect of action was on him. Nowadays he found it banished not only weariness but thoughts he did not wish to entertain: grief for old Calgacus, a certain emptiness that had come with his own advancing years, the suspicion of a lonely old age.
The Heathobard held up his hand. The column stopped. Through the trees, at the bottom of the slope, dark in the moonlight, they could see the longship. They had not known if it would still be there. Five days before, the Brondings had raided a village to the east. In a small boat, the two Heathobards who had arrived at Heoroweard’s funeral had tracked it to this isolated mooring. Although they had said the Brondings had taken much drink and some women, until this moment Maximus had been half sure the raiders would have moved on. Carelessness or arrogance — maybe both — had left Widsith, the son of Unferth, with just one boat in this lonely place.
The longship was not beached but close moored to the shore by its stern. It lay in the shelter of a small, projecting cape. Its benches could not be counted because its awnings were rigged. But it was big; a crew of up to a hundred, Maximus thought. They watched it for a time. Nothing moved. No lights showed on the vessel. The embers of a fire on the beach pulsed in the wind. The Brondings must have eaten ashore, then gone back on board to sleep in shelter.
Ballista passed the word for them to gather round. He outlined his plan. They would divide into four groups. One — himself, Maximus, Tarchon, Ivar Horse-Prick, Wada the Short, Rikiar the Vandal, and the Rugian guide — would wade out to the prow. When Castricius saw them climb on to the boat, he was to
lead six of the Romans and all sixteen Olbians in the main attack from the beach on to the stern. At the first alarm, all four Heathobards — the two newcomers and the two who had joined the hearth-troop earlier — were to board from the water on the starboard and cut the ropes securing the awnings, while three Romans led by Diocles were to do the same on the other side. The Egyptian Heliodorus said it would be better if he replaced Diocles leading the Romans in the water, otherwise, if Castricius fell, there would be no one to take over command of the main force. Ballista checked this with Castricius, who agreed.
They crept down the incline, keeping as far as possible in cover. The wind soughed through the branches, and pine needles cushioned their footfall. They halted at the tree line. Maximus looked back. The men were blackened, as they had been outside Olbia. No one had drawn his weapon yet. The banded moonlight broke up their outlines as they squatted, waiting like a band of malevolent dwarves risen from under the ground to take vengeance on mankind for some primordial wrong. The smell of resin was strong, sickly. The sound of splashing water, as nerves prompted first one then another to empty his bladder.
Ahead, thirty paces of open beach, the sand almost blue in the moonlight. Little tongues of white flame occasionally flickered in the ashes of the fire. Beyond, the dark boat sat on a coal-black sea. Its mast rocked gently against the sky. Torn, high clouds rushed across the moon. Logs ticked in the fire, water lapped the shore. Still no sound or movement to indicate anyone was awake.
Ballista stood. With the creak of leather, Maximus and the others did the same. They all waited, their breathing shallow. Once this was begun, there could be no stopping.
Ballista moved off. Maximus went behind his shoulder. Neither looked back. They crossed the beach at a careful jog. To begin with, the sand gave under their feet; then it was compacted and hard.
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