Fire & Steel (12 page)

At the end of the armed group, barely visible as an occasionally glimpsed nodding head, Osbeorn brought up the rear of the column. Identified as the source of the miasma which had followed the group like a faithful wet dog, the king had banished the duguth there for fouling the air in the king's hall. Eofer could not help but notice that Osbeorn's standing had immediately risen among the king's men; Ena's eggs were evidently popular, even if the consequences were less so.

As the sun approached its high point, the outriders which had ridden ahead of the column took a track which led away to the East. Soon they were among a press of oak and elm, the ancient woodland which had witnessed the arrival of Woden and his war-band when the earth was young and the land had first been settled by Ingvæone folk. The wind sighed through the treetops as the party wend its way through a steady rain of crisp russet leaves which banked against the sides of the path and collected in the hollows. Fording a brook, King Eomær led the column out onto the side of a grassy ridge. Below them lay a sheltered valley. At its head stood a fine hunting lodge which looked out across the fields to the iron grey waters of Suthworthig Bay beyond.

A hawk hung in the air as it quartered the ground, and the pair watched it with admiration. The king spoke, excitement dancing in his eyes. “A kestrel!” He turned his head to Eofer. “Which hawk do you use to hunt?”

“My father and I were gifted gyrfalcons by our kinsman, King Hygelac, for our support during his exile.”

Eomær nodded, clearly impressed. “Fine birds, it was a noble gift, manfully earned. You brought honour on myself and the English folk by your actions in Geatland and Swede Land that summer and reputation for yourself,” the king said. “I have heard accounts of your actions there and elsewhere and you show promise, Eofer. But before you can be held to be an eorle by your king you need to prove your worth and loyalty consistently.” Eomær fixed him with a hard stare. “Have you decided to accept Cerdic’s offer or remain with your own people in these difficult times?”

The blood drained from Eofer’s face as he stammered a reply. “My future and that of my people are irrevocably bound, lord.”

The king flicked Eofer a look of amusement. “You are wondering how I knew?” he said. “The truth is that I only had my suspicions until your expression gave you away. Leaders of armies can never have enough men of worth in their ranks Eofer,” he added with a self-satisfied smirk. “It was natural for a warlord in Cerdic’s position to attempt to enlist your help against his enemies. You need to be fox-cunning to wear the king helm and stay alive for as long as I have!” The humour quickly faded from the king’s face to be replaced by the stone-hard countenance of a leader of men. “I am your natural lord and I have a task for you, Eofer,” he said. “Complete it well and you will rise even higher in the estimation of your king and people.” The king guided his mount along a badger run which angled off across the face of the valley side, changing the subject to put his thegn at ease as the tail of the column and its shamefaced outrider emerged from the tree line. “Hygelac died like a king in Frankland, as did the men who accompanied him, I hear. Valhall will have had a riotous night welcoming all the new arrivals!” He glanced across as the horses walked on. “Have you heard from King Heardred?”

“Not since he sent word that he had taken the gift stool of the Geats.”

A shadow fell across them and Eofer glanced up to see that they had reached the outer compound which guarded the lodge. The ditch and mound which encircled the buildings were sharp edged, as yet unworn by the passage of time. Glancing up at the great timbers which formed the palisade above, Eofer could see that the wood was newly felled. The defences were recent additions and he sighed inwardly as he realised that the waters of the bay opposite, so long an English lake, were slipping from their control.

The king led them through the gatehouse and dismounted as a groom rushed across to lead the horse away. Eomær indicated that Eofer step to one side as the other riders entered the stockade. “King Heardred's position is secure. I have sent word to his neighbours that he is a friend of the English and promised him our help once again while he replaces the losses they incurred in the South.” Eofer made to thank the king, but he held up a hand and cut him short, his face suddenly fixed into a scowl. “That is not why we are here today. The Danes have violated our land and people and I will take a blood price for their arrogance.” He took the eorle by the arm and fixed him with a stare. “Your brother Wulf, lives. He is a captive in Dane Land and you, Eofer, will be the very point of our avenging spear.”

ELEVEN

The giant warrior and the men of his war-band knelt at the approach of the king. King Eomær indicated that they rise and turned to Eofer. “Eofer Wonreding, king's bane, this is the champion of the Heathobeards, Starkad Storvirkson.” Starkad smiled in greeting but the gesture carried little warmth. Despite the magnificence of the king, the sheer size and reputation of the great warrior of the War-Beards dominated the room.

Eofer studied the man as the king indicated that they remove themselves to the upper floor where the more detailed discussions between them would take place. Starkad, he decided, combined the build of a bull with the mien of a wolf. Clad in a web of mail, close fitting and shining as it reflected the flaming hearth, the War-Beard's most notable feature apart from his size was the three angry welts which scored his face, the result, stories told, of a fistfight with a bear. Starkad's left eye had been destroyed by a great swipe of the beast's paw, and the white orb which remained added to the menace which emanated from the man.

King Eomær led the pair to a stairway which climbed to the upper story as the warriors, English and Heathobeard settled at the benches. Eofer glared at Starkad as they approached the staircase and the War-Beard paused to allow the Engle to follow his king. Again the humourless smile flashed across the man's face, and Eofer found himself hoping that whatever the cause for his presence here, wyrd would never force them to become shield brothers.

The stairway emptied out onto a wide sunlit room which encircled the upper floor of the lodge. The wall spaces between the uprights of the building had been left open to the air from waist height to the thatch above, flooding the space with light. Food and drink had been provided at one end of the balcony and King Eomær indicated to the servants there that they should leave with a flick of his head.

The king rested his hands on a sill and looked out down the wide valley with a sigh. “This was a fine lodge,” he said, sweeping the area to the front with an arm. “Game would be driven towards us here on this platform and we could take them as they ran by.” He turned back and smiled ruefully. “I had it built when my father, King Engeltheow, grew too old to hunt from horseback.” He gave a sad shrug. “We think that we have recovered from the sword strike that came from nowhere, the spear which came beneath the shield. We forget them, but they never forget us. All the old wounds come back to torment our bodies when the vigour of youth wanes.”

The king's humour came back with a rush as he threw off the feeling of melancholy and smiled. “Starkad, you have welcome news for my eorle.”

The cold smile returned and the War-Beard nodded. “Eofer, I am sure that your lord has broken the happy news of your brother's survival. I can tell you that he is being kept by the Danes at Hleidra. I was there only last month and saw him with my own eyes.”

Eofer beamed as the news which the king had passed to him in the courtyard was confirmed. “You have my thanks, Starkad, my family are in your debt.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked from the Heathobeard to his king and back again. “Forgive me, but the scops which tell of the deeds of the only Starkad Storvirkson known to me, have always failed to mention that he travels the northern lands bringing good cheer to grieving families. What is the real reason for your journey to my lord's land?”

Eomær and Starkad exchanged a look before both men threw back their heads and laughed. As was right, the king spoke first. “That was well said. You are your father's son, Eofer. King Ingeld has sent Starkad to me with the offer of an alliance against our common enemy, the Danes.” He took up a cup from the trestle and sipped from the mead within. “It seems that the efforts which King Hrothgar has made to cultivate their friendship have come to nought.” He looked back to the War-Beard. “Starkad, will you explain the weft and weave of the Danish scheming to my thegn.”

Starkad dipped his head. “Hrothgar has been trying to placate his neighbours to the South with gold and peace-weaving. Ever since the death of the fell troll which plagued Heorot they have been rebuilding their strength, and now they are over-proud once more. Now that any threat from the Geats has been removed by the Franks and Frisians,” he shrugged and took a mouthful of ale as the king supplied the end to the sentence. “They are free to raid the lands which they have always coveted, our lands being chief among them.”

Eofer looked back to Starkad. “If the Danes are your enemies, why were you there so recently?”

Starkad chuckled and Eofer saw a degree of respect begin to tint his attitude towards him. “You are right to be wary,” the giant smiled. “My king is no friend of the English. You may or may not know, Eofer king's bane, but I am not a Heathobeard by birth. My people are the Eisti who lie on the eastern shores of the sea which you call the Beltic. I was shipwrecked as a young man and entered the service of King Ingeld's father, King Froda. Early in his reign Hrothgar attacked and killed my king whilst I was leading a raid on the lands of the Wulfings. His son, Ingeld took the king helm but we could never avenge our lord's death.” He coloured with the admission, but set his face as he forced down the sense of shame. “Last summer, Hrothgar sent word that he desired old enmities be forgotten between us. He sent my king a magnificent longship filled with treasure, gold rings, cunningly worked sword blades and mail byrnies, along with the offer of the hand of his only daughter, Freawaru, as a peace-weaver. Against my advice, the king accepted and led a party to Heorot to collect his bride. While we were there I saw your brother and heard the tale of the brave attack he led against Prince Hrothmund and his vikings on Harrow.”

Eofer exchanged a sidelong look with his lord and King Eomær recognised the eorle's mistrust. “You are right to be wary,” he said, “but there is more.”

Starkad brightened and a look of satisfaction returned to his face. “During the feasting at Heorot, a young Dane was boasting of his father's war-luck. He brandished a blade which I recognised at once as the ancestral sword which had belonged to my friend Withergeld long ago. He had fought at the front when King Froda had died. All who escaped the reddened maw of the wolf and raven that day called him a hero. Withergeld's son, Brand, was with our party and I drew his attention to the blade.” Starkad drew himself up proudly as he described the result of his goading. “Brand acted with honour. He challenged the Dane to holmgang before the assembly. Despite the efforts of Hrothgar and his cwen, Wealhtheow, the withies were set outside and Brand took blood-price, slaying his father's killer.” The War-Beard threw them a wolfish smile. “Blood had been spilt and old wounds reopened. The betrothal was rejected. King Ingeld returned the woman to her parents and we left for home.”

Starkad reached for a cup of ale with an air of triumph, and Eofer wondered at the man's disloyalty. It was plain that he had looked for a reason to disrupt the betrothal despite the wishes of his king and lord. A warrior's first duty was to the man who had received his oath, any personal ambition or feelings were irrelevant. He exchanged a look with his king which confirmed that both Englishmen were agreed that this Starkad Storvirkson was about as trustworthy as a sack of adders.

Despite the mutually felt distrust, the king moved to allay his fears. “I have heard this tale from other sources, but the detail about your brother, Wulf, is new to me. I would pay red gold
for his return but it is the opinion of King Ingeld, and I agree, that my offer would be rejected. It would also let the Danes know that we were aware that he had survived the fight, and that would make your own attack less likely to succeed.”

Eofer's heart raced as the reason for his summons by war-sword became clear.

Starkad nodded as he confirmed the king's statement. “As King Eomær says, the Danes are not looking for ransom.” He fixed Eofer with a stare. “Your brother is to be sacrificed at the winter solstice.”

The last of the warriors filed into the hall as the setting sun painted the town beyond the palisade a fiery red. The men exchanged glances as Ælfhelm, the reeve of Eorthdraca, drew the great doors together with a resounding boom. They had gathered and watched as the king and his guda had sacrificed a war stallion to Ing in the shadow of the hall, seeking his guidance in the deliberations to come. Each man there knew that, in the flames of the evening sky, the god had provided them with his answer.

Eofer and the men of his hearth troop had been shown great honour by the king, and he smiled to himself in satisfaction as he recognised the whispered comments and envious looks of the other thegns present as they took their place at the lower benches. Eofer looked across to his father and felt a surge of pride. Sat among his fellow folctoga and men of the wise, only feet away from King Eomær himself, Wonred had reached the pinnacle of his ambition. Eofer caught his eye and threw him a wink, chuckling to himself as his father beamed in return.

The last of the evening light was fading from the wind holes high in the side wall of Eorthdraca, casting the roof beams and the space between into alternating furrows of blood and soil. Ing was guiding his people to war and, as the hubbub subsided, the last of the thræls set the torches into the great iron stands and hurried away.

A voice boomed from the top table, filling the hall, and Eofer saw that the old reeve, Æscwine, had the duties within the hall that evening. He recognised the king's hand in it and found that he approved of his choice. The old man deserved the honour after a lifetime of devotion to his clan.

The sound of wood scraping on wood echoed around the walls as the warriors rose to welcome their lord's lady. Cwen Eahlswith entered the hall from a rear door, carrying the great drinking horn of the symbel before her. Throwing the hall a radiant smile, she moved to the king and passed the great horn across. Longer than a man's arm, the symbel horn was said to have been wrenched from an aurochs by Woden himself after a hunt long ago. Gilt figures of men and beasts encircled the mouthpiece and, curling up from its base, a silver terminal ended in the great sweep of a raven's beak, Woden's bird. King Eomær took the horn with a gracious nod to his cwen and sank the first mouthful of the specially brewed beer contained within. Stronger than ale and mead, the brew was infused with herbs known only to Osgar, the king's leading guda. The beer was an important part of the ritual, helping the men, king and warriors alike, to enter the state which they called
giddig
, the swirling feeling when Woden came among them and the god entered their minds. The warriors remained silent as the cwen moved along the top table, passing the horn from folctoga to folctoga and conversing easily with each man.

Soon, Eahlswith stood before Eofer's bench companions and she smiled warmly and wished them well as they sipped from the horn. As she moved through the great space the men were free to take their seats once again and the real drinking of the evening could begin. Eofer charged the cups of each of his duguth and solemnly raised his own.

“Here's to our success…”

The warriors raised their cups in reply and they came together with a clatter as they made the pledge and roared the retort.

“Wæs Hæl!
Drinc Hæl!”

Imma Gold shook his head in appreciation and looked at his cup. “Symbel beer,” he breathed, “the drink of the gods!”

They all shared a laugh as they began to relax and enjoy the evening. All of the men now knew the reason for the journey to the hunting lodge in the isolated valley, and they were eager to take the war to the Danes. Each man there had known their eorle's brother for a decade or more and the men of the brothers' troop had fought side by side in shield walls in Swede Land and Britannia. They knew now that their shield-brothers were dead to a man, but they had died with honour, sword or spear in hand, and they were feasting with their ancestors in an even greater hall as they themselves sat at their beer. Soon, they knew, they would sail the whale-road, free Wulf and wreak bloody vengeance.

The hall was now abuzz as the cwen paused at the top table to kiss her lord before departing the gathering. The skylights were now solid squares of jet as the men set to their beer and the first dancers strode into the space before the king and took up their stance. Each youth carried a gar in each hand, the heavy thrusting spears of the English shield wall. Clad only in a belt of exquisite workmanship, the dancers crouched beneath the helms which symbolised membership of the wolf brotherhood. Binding friend and fiend among the warriors of the northern lands, the helms terminated in a pair of opposing raven heads which curled above the dome to form a crest. Every thegn had danced the dance of the wolf warrior at his own initiation into the cult and he carried a representation of the wolf dancers on a plate above the left eye of his own battle helm. It served to identify the warrior elite on the battlefield, and although no quarter would be expected or given among opposing members of the brotherhood, they would seek to ensure that their enemy died sword in hand and gain entry to Valhall.

As the youths danced, thrusting their gar in time to a steady drumbeat, Osgar reappeared with his underlings bearing sheaths of barley, feeding them into the braziers which were scattered about the hall. A weave of wildflowers and secret things known only to men of their craft, the sheaths represented the founder of the English people, Sceaf himself. It was the first indication to the warriors present that this symbel was to be much more than a call to arms, and the king watched from his gift stool as his men exchanged questioning looks. Soon the air was thick with the sweet smell drifting across from the fires as Æscwine came forward to strike the boards with the hall staff.

A veil of smoke moved to engulf the men at the top table and, as it cleared, the now
giddig
warriors in the hall saw that their king had been transfigured into Woden himself. The god sat on the king's gift stool, his great spear Shaker held in his right hand and a hart topped whetstone grasped in his left. A grim-helm of silvered plates enclosed the god's face and head, the left eye alone glowing a dull hoop of red in the reflected light of the hearth.