Fire & Steel (10 page)

She saw that Brecc had lit a brand from the hearth as he passed and she acknowledged his foresight with a nod. Slipping the heavy wooden bar from the door she pulled it inwards.

Outside the wind still howled in the treetops, but the clouds had been chased away to the East and the open space which lay between the buildings was bathed a pewter grey.

Weohstan led them through, and mother and son took up position to bar entry to the riders as their thræl fixed the torch into a bracket. The horsemen, war grim in their polished helms, were approaching the paddock beneath a scroll of flame, the light gleaming from steel and gold as the men came on.

Astrid took her place at her son's right hand as Brecc moved to the left, and together the trio planted their feet four-square as the war-band thundered into the yard. As the wind captured the flames and drove them eastwards, an involuntary gasp escaped Astrid's lips as she recognised the men for who they were. As she lowered her shield the riders drew up in a line facing the hall and Weohstan strode proud of the group. Clashing his spear shaft three times against the rim of his own little shield, the boy cried his challenge.

“I am Weohstan, son of Eofer king's bane, Hygelac's kin.

Rider, tell to me now your own lineage and whether your intentions are base or honourable.

If you seek shelter from the storm you will find a welcome in my father's hall.

If you carry a hatred for my clan in your heart you will find that we are no strangers to battle play.

I will not avoid it. Even if I knew myself doomed, I was not born a coward.

It is better to fight than be burnt inside by men with hate in their hearts.”

Eofer grasped his helm and lifted it clear of his head, pride at his son's bearing and demeanour shining in his eyes. As her eorle swung himself down to gather the boy in his arms, Spearhafoc slipped an arrow from her quiver and Oswin shot forward with a yelp as he received a sharp jab in the buttock. “That's
wordcræft,
word-poor.”

The men of Eofer's hearth troop
shared a laugh, all the discomforts of the journey home forgotten as they reached their goal.

“Four winters old,” she continued as they began to haul themselves, saddle weary, from their mounts, “and already an eorle.”

NINE

The riders dug in their heels and took the grindle at a canter. That was the last of the drainage ditches which tapered down to the western bay, and the group settled into a trot as the lowering sun turned the water there to amber. Soon they would be back at Wonred's hunting lodge, and Eofer smiled to himself as he watched his father take the obstruction with the ease of a man far younger in winters.

The old man was a
folctoga
now, one of the king's leading advisers in the witan, the wise, a commander of armies. Never one to covet the kingship of his people, the man had risen as high as his ambition had ever stretched. The day that the norns had woven their threads to send Hygelac of Geatland into exile three winters previously had been the spark which propelled his old friend to the position which he now occupied. Seizing the opportunity to place an ally on the throne of the Danes' northern neighbours, King Eomær had supported his cause with an English ship army under the command of the ealdorman. The
sciphere
had fallen on Geatland the following spring, only to discover that Hygelac's brother, King Hythcyn, was raiding in Swede Land. Following hard on their heels, the English had crushed the army of the Brondings and run Hythcyn's army to ground at a place called Ravenswood. Attacking in the dawn, they had surprised a Swedish relief force under the command of their king, Ongentheow, and in the heavy fighting Ongentheow had fallen to English might. Eofer had dealt Ongentheow, the old battle boar, his death blow. It had been the act which had earned the young Engle the title king's bane and the elevation of his father, Wonred, to the coveted position of one of the folctoga of the English.

Eofer rode at his father's side, their breath pluming as the chill of the evening descended. Away to the West the salt marshes were beginning to haze as a mist, sparkling like steel in the raking light, rose to veil the shallows.

It had been a good day. Dozens of birds, Mallard, Teal, Pochard, bounced against the flanks of the horses as they moved and the pair, father and son, each proudly carried his gyrfalcon atop his fist as he rode. Hooded now the birds, magnificent in their silvery plumage, were both from the same brood. A gift to each man from a grateful Hygelac, the birds were almost as large as the eagles which hunted the grasslands and both men carried their charges with ill-concealed pride.

Eofer felt his father to be content for the first time since he had returned, and he took the opportunity to broach the thorny subject of his brother's disappearance. “Is there still no word of Wulf's fate?”

Eofer noticed an involuntary grimace cross his father's face at the mention of his youngest son, but he was kin to Eofer, too; he had a right to ask. Wonred ran his free hand through the remains of his hair and sighed. The long locks of his youth were a thing of memory, and Eofer remembered the day when he had laughed along with his brother as the old man had finally given up on the straggly mop and appeared in the hall shorn like a spring lamb. That too had been a good day, and he felt a pang as the face of his brother faded from his mind. Wonred shook his head. “Nothing. Not a peep.”

Eofer spat. “I need to know the name of the fiend who overcame him if I am to take
blodweorth.
”

The old man shook his head and Eofer noticed that he fingered the hilt of his sword as he replied.

“I have let it be known that I will pay for that information, but nothing has come back to me yet. All I know is what I told you the day you came to my hall.” He turned his face to his son and Eofer was pleased to see a smile form on his father's features. “He died well, Eofer, sword swinging against his king's enemies. The war-band which reached the cliffs above the fight saw Wulf lead the men of his troop against the
wicingas.
They cut their way through to the dragon ship and Wulf managed to get aboard before the ship floated free of the strand and carried them out to sea. The sun had risen by then to shine directly in the faces of Coelfrith and his men, and the last that they could see was the dawn light glinting on sword play as blades rose and fell and the seamen rowed for deeper water.” Wonred made a fist and reached across to thump his son on the shoulder. “Rest easy, lad. All men know that the king's bane will take vengeance on his brother's slayer.”

Ahead of them the path curved around the settlement of Framasham, its longhouses radiating away from the open space at the centre in the manner of the westerners. Unlike the halls found throughout the higher Wolds and eastern parts of Engeln, those of the low lying lands of the polder incorporated a space for their livestock within the body of the hall. The animals wintered within these byres or were gathered in the area at the heart of the settlement known as the common where they could be safeguarded against the depredations of wolves or men during the warmer months of the year. As the sky hardened to a blackish-blue in the East, the last of the cattle were being driven between the boundary posts towards their winter lodgings as Eofer spoke again. “At least Heardred seems safely established as king in Geatland, despite the wishes of his mother I hear.”

Wonred threw him a look. “Women's ambitions don't always match those of their menfolk. Hygd had just lost Hygelac and other kinsmen including her brother to the fighting in Frisland.” He shrugged. “No woman wants to outlive their family; kings tend to live short and violent lives here in the North.” Leaning in towards his son, Wonred glanced behind to ensure that there were no riders within earshot before he shared the most dramatic news of all. “Hygelac's death was the work of the Allfather.”

Eofer looked at his father in shock as the fear which he had shared on the beach with Heardred was confirmed. “You know this?”

Wonred nodded. “He told me himself, the winter he was a wræcca and his brother Hythcyn ruled. Woden came to his hall many winters ago and made a pact with the old fool. He was to ensure that his foster, Beowulf, became the Geatish champion and the king-helm would be his.” He sniffed as if the following statement was self-evident. “The gods are powerful, but fickle all the same, Woden most of all. Show them respect but place your trust in your own sword arm, Eofer. They delight in chaos.”

Eofer knew that the moment had arrived to broach what he knew would be a difficult subject with his father. He looked across and held the old man’s gaze. “The Allfather has spoken to me also, father.”

Wonred looked aghast and Eofer could not help but give a short snort of amusement, despite the gravity of the moment. “Don’t worry,” he smiled reassuringly, “the Wanderer has not called at
my
hall!” The ealdorman’s face remained a mask of concern, and Eofer continued quickly. “Certain things occurred in Britannia this summer which could only be the will of the god. Trust me father,” he pleaded, “soon the Allfather will send a sign and I ask for your support in the witan when that time comes.”

They passed the place where the cattle had crossed the track, hoof prints and sludgy pats of dung marking their passage, and swung to the East. The land rose slowly here and, rounding a spur, the twin storeys of the hunting lodge itself came into view beneath its hood of thatch. The horses plodded on as thoughts turned to good food, good ale and the companionship of the hearth. Suddenly their warm meanderings were interrupted by the blast of a horn and, following the sound, the men watched as the guards on the palisade pointed their spears. A shape detached itself from the shadow of the paling, cantering down the track towards them, the horn blast and the quality of the man's mount and clothing marking him out as a messenger of the king.

Eofer and Wonred exchanged a glance and reined in as the rider drew closer. Curbing his mount, the exhausted messenger nodded in recognition and flipped up the cover on a large leather cylinder and fumbled inside. Every man present knew what the tube contained, and the war-sword, its tip symbolically charred and blackened by fire, emerged into the light to be greeted by grins of delight. The royal messenger gripped the small wooden sword and handed it to the folctoga who rolled it between his finger and thumb as he read the battle runes inscribed upon its blade. He looked back to the man. “When are we to assemble?”

“At Winterfylleth, lord, the first full moon of winter. There is to be a symbel of all the leading men.” The man dipped back into the container and withdrew another war-sword. Leaning across, he again gripped the blade in both fists and held it forward. “I have a summons for Eorle Eofer also. King Eomær orders that he take ship to Sleyswic by way of the carrying place. He expects that you will be with him within the month.”

“Drizzle.”

Eofer looked at Imma Gold. “Drizzle?”

The duguth wiped the flat of his hand down his face and shook the drops free from his beard like a big shaggy dog. “Yes, drizzle. What a fitting word that is for this miserable shit.” They both squinted up into the murk, and laughter rolled around the ship as a voice came from the youth manning the oars. “If it's a good word, it's not one of Oswin's!”

The pair snorted, and the eorle looked beyond the hooked prow which had given the
Fælcen
its name. Ahead, the River Trene took a turn to the left and disappeared in the washed out greyness of late autumn, the steady rainfall making a pock-marked road which led into the heart of the kingdom. Despite the fact that they had erected an awning amidships most of the men not pulling at the oars had given up all hope of remaining dry after enduring days of non-stop drizzle, and they had given up the space to keep their battle gear from the elements as all good warriors should.

The weather had clamped down almost as soon as the royal messenger had left his father's lodge. Gathering his hearth troop about him, Eofer had sent word to the boat sheds at Strand that he would be making one final journey in the scegth that year.

The
Fælcen
had been re-rigged and provisioned when they had arrived the following day. Sæward had had Edwin and his lads work through the long night to re-caulk any leaky seams, and the ship had slipped free of the jetty almost unnoticed by a port already dozing in its winter slumber.

Fresh from their time on shore the youths had bent their backs to the oars, and the ship had kept pace with the pale shimmer which marked the progress of the sun as it rolled along the southern horizon. That had all changed the moment that the scegth had nosed out from the shelter of the great promontory of Hwælness. The prevailing winds were now against them, and the ship master had given the shoals around the Ness a wide berth as he had tacked the ship well out to sea before coming about. With the wind now blowing steadily from astern the
Fælcen
had bounded forward, sweeping into the estuary of the River Egedore as the sky had changed from slate to jet. Now, with the town of Portasmutha behind them, it was a steady row of two days to the carrying place, a further day of manhandling the scegth across the portage to the Sley and the king's hall which stood near its shore.

The river rolled by and the men of the duguth clustered on the steering platform. A grebe, the elegance of its long white neck and tufted cap at odds with the bleak dreariness of its surroundings, disappeared beneath the surface with a splash, resurfacing only after the ship had passed by and any danger was receding.

Octa broke the silence. “Do you have any idea why the king wanted us to come by ship, lord? It would have been quicker and easier to ride.”

“And drier,” Beorn put in. “We could have broken the journey at Coelfrith's hall and still been at Sleyswic within two days.”

Eofer shrugged. “You were there when I received the war-sword. The messenger said come this way, so here we are.”

A mournful lowing came from the mist shrouded bank, and the group looked across as the disembodied head and shoulders of a lone cow appeared to hover there, its jaws sliding sideways as it chewed on a ball of cud.

“King's bane passed me in his war glory.

Eofer and I, both floating…”

The men of the duguth winced as the words reached them on the steering platform, and the twins, Hræfen and Crawa, reached forward from their thwart to strike the boy about the head. Eofer and Thrush Hemming exchanged a look as it became plain that word-poor would not retaliate to the blows.

“This is becoming serious, Eofer,” the weorthman said. “We could have a death on our hands soon.”

The mood among the men now matched the weather as Osbeorn asked a question of his eorle. “Just how much do you owe his father, lord?”

Eofer still watched the youth as he rowed, head down and sullen. Hemming was right, the boy would never make a warrior, but if he refused to stand up to intimidation he would never live long enough to become a scop, either. “He died at Ravenswood, helping to shield my brother from King Ongentheow's attack as he lay wounded at his feet.”

There were nods of agreement. A debt was owed to the man, but that was not going to be repaid by allowing his son to be harried to his death. Octa shrugged. “I will give him some of my time, teach him to fight.”

Eofer looked at his duguth in gratitude and his man returned a wicked grin.

“Don't thank me lord, he certainly won't. I will teach him how to fight, but he might wish that he
was
dead by the end.”

It was late in the short northern day when Sæward worked the steer bord and brought the
Fælcen
prow-first into the slipway. Two boys, dressed identically in trews and shirts made from tough blue sailcloth, leapt up at their approach and disappeared into a hall which stood surrounded by workshops and barns. As Eofer stepped ashore, a tall figure emerged from the building and came across.

“Welcome to Old Ford, my name is Eadmund. Of course it's not really a ford,” he smiled, “but it is old and it sounds better than 'The Ford'. Lends it a touch of loftiness, don't you think, lord?”

Eofer cast his eyes around the riverside. Like most boatyards he had ever visited this was far from 'lofty'. The
Fælcen
was the only ship of any size to be seen, but the evidence of the summer trade lay scattered all around. Mounds of ballast lay where they had been discarded by the traders who had used the portage before, the roughly hewn rocks mouldering under a blanket of moss. Across the way, the big kettles which were used to boil the pitch and tar lay cold and unattended, but the evidence of their use lay spattered all about them and several frames for transporting the ships overland lined the track.