Fire & Steel (18 page)

“To the glory of Woden and all the gods,” he paused theatrically as he swept his arms wide, “we have a race!” The crowd cheered and Wonred waited, his face a ruddy bloom of ale-fuelled joy, until the noise lessened. “Once around Thunor's shard and back,” he explained. “The first one to pass the old oak wins.”

Wonred raised his arm and looked to the contestants. As the crowd quietened and all eyes turned to the ealdorman, Eofer's father brought his arm chopping down and the race was on. The multitude roared with delight, jostling for the best positions as Eofer caught Coelwulf's eye and walked across.

Glancing down the slope Eofer could see that his new youth was already nearing the turning point and the crowd let out a gasp as his hand shot out to steady himself as he made the turn. The priests told that the shard had lain there ever since the thunder god had fought a duel with a giant named Brawler. Thunor had hurled his hammer at the
eoten,
striking a whetstone which had been aimed his way in return. The missiles had met in mid-air and the stone had shattered and fallen to earth, scattering the shards across the northern lands. It was a crime punishable by death to touch a thing which had come into contact with the hammer of the god and Eofer joined the rest of the onlookers, laughing with relief as Grimwulf drew back his hand at the last moment.

Less agile the horse went wide, and Eofer drew a laugh from his friend as he held out a hand and wriggled a finger ring as Grimwulf closed in on the oak. The race had been won and Imma Gold led a raucous group across to congratulate their new brother as Coelwulf shook his head in disbelief. The thegn slipped a heavy ring from his finger and tossed it across. “I would never have believed such a thing, but that was well earned Eofer. Where did you find him?”

Eofer gave the ring a swift shine on his sleeve and slipped it on to his finger. “In a barn in Daneland.”

Coelwulf glanced around him. Satisfied that the few people within earshot were still caught up in the acclamation of the runner, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I shall see if I can find one for myself soon enough.” He plucked at Eofer's sleeve and the thegns wandered across to the ale barrel and refilled their cups. The vicinity was free of folk for the first time that day as they flocked to look upon the man who could outrun a horse as Coelwulf continued. “I was with the king not five days ago. The plans are made. The war-sword has been sent to Anglia and the first ships should arrive on the east coast before Eostre. Before the great war against the Danes commences there is one further raid which the king intends to make.” He glanced about them and, satisfied that they were alone, a proud smile spread across his features. “He has asked me to gather an army from the western Wolds and join them to a force led by the king's son, Icel. The ætheling is to lead an attack against the Jutes and return with as many prisoners as we can manage.” He saw the mask of disappointment on Eofer's face and chuckled. “King Eomær mentioned you in our conversation and he described the face you would pull to perfection. He holds you in the highest regard, as I am sure you aware, mighty king's bane
,
” he teased, “but he thought that you should spend time with your family before you go to war again.” Coelwulf leaned in and his nostrils flared as the thegn gave an exaggerated sniff. “I am sure that I can still smell the smoke from old Hrothgar's hall in your hair!”

A cry drew their attention, and both men chuckled as they watched Astrid and her old
thyften
, Editha, chasing young Weohstan across the meadow. “She looks like she could do with some help,” Coelwulf quipped as Astrid scooped up the lad and threw him across her shoulder.

Eofer looked back to his friend and the smile drained from his face. “The king forgets that my wife is the daughter of King Hygelac, not some scatty milk maid squeezing a teat and daydreaming of her cock. Her father just died in battle and her brother is King of Geats, she knows the duties of a peace-weaver.”

Coelwulf brought their cups together with a chink. “The king said that you would say that too. Not quite in those words,” he admitted with a chuckle, “but they carried the gist!” He gripped Eofer by the sleeve and excitement shone in his eyes. “The new moon is in twenty days' time. Bring your men to Wihtlæg's Stone and we ride.”

The shadows were lengthening by the moment as the group split and went their separate ways with waves and happy smiles. Ealdorman Wonred paused the armed warriors on the road as the men bent low and kissed wives and children before hurrying across to rejoin them.

Eofer embraced Astrid and tousled Weohstan's hair affectionately as they made to follow the guda towards the sacred place. With the setting of the sun on the first day of the new year, the people would leave offerings to the weather god at the great oak. Thunorsleah, Thunor's holy grove, stood deep within the shadows of the Wolds and each adult carried a flaming brand to help draw the attention of the thunderer to the place and to aid in their homeward journey.

Astrid drew back from Eofer's embrace as Weohstan hefted his small shield at her side and looked on proudly.

“How long?”

Eofer looked at her in confusion. “We will be back at the hall before breakfast, as ever.”

She smiled sweetly and laid a hand lightly on his chest as she looked into his eyes. “No, how long until you leave again?” she said. “I saw you talking with Coelwulf. Eorles and thegns don't ignore horse fights unless the prospect of fighting and plunder draws them away.”

He chuckled and bent to kiss her again. “Twenty days, it will be a short one though, no ships.”

She nodded and turned to go before pausing and shooting him a coy look. Laying the hand on her belly she moved it slowly in a circle. “Good, I should be certain by then.”

The mighty war horse tossed its head and whinnied, its nostrils flaring as the warriors formed a circle and raised their brands aloft. The holt was dense in this part of the Wolds and the light which sawed and danced from the torches barely penetrated the deep shadow of Hangman's Wood which surrounded them. From their lofty position the warriors watched as the sun sank in the West until it was no more than a greasy smear of ochre on the horizon, the dying rays reaching up to colour the undersides of the clouds a fiery red.

The ash stood hard on the crossroads, the dying light painting its great trunk a ruddy gold as the rope was tossed over a sturdy bough and the slack taken up.

Eofer stood surrounded by his duguth, and he exchanged a look with the only member of the youth he had invited along. The light of pride still shone in the young woman's eyes as Spearhafoc stood among the warriors which towered all around her and, although there had been a few raised eyebrows from the men of other troops, his own men had accepted her into their ranks without a murmur. The memory of the youth's arrows speeding away into the dark as the
Fælcen
had neared the Danish shore was still fresh, and every man there knew that her sharpshooting that night had made the difference between surprise and a hard fight.

Eofer marked the wounds of the animal and nodded to himself. It would please the Allfather to receive such a gift and he would send them victory in the coming time which men were already beginning to call the year of fire and steel. He had, as Astrid had noticed, missed the great fight between the steeds. The men of his troop had returned from the corral thrilled by the savagery, their faces reflecting the amount of silver which they had won or lost on the contest. The neck and flanks of the stallion were bloodied and torn by hooves and teeth, but its eyes shone bright with victory and its spirit remained undimmed. Each man there knew the thrill which came with out-thinking and overpowering a tough opponent and they swelled with pride as their ealdorman walked into the circle and called on their god to witness the act.

“Woden, fury, lord of battle, witness our devotion and accept this offering to you,

bring victory in the great battles which lie ahead,

hold your spear over our people as they wrest a new land from the followers of a lesser god,

a new Engeln, unyielding in its fervour for the true gods…”

Wonred raised his shield and spear high as the sliver of the sun finally slipped below the distant horizon. The timing was perfect and the men of his hearth troop hauled on the rope and drew the horse on to its hind quarters. As the rope bit and the animal thrashed the air with its bloodied hoofs, an unearthly yowl split the air as the noose tightened. The blood drained from the faces of the English warriors with the power of the moment as they beat spear shafts against the rims of their shields and chanted the god's name. Wonred walked across to the steed as the men of his troop strained against the rope and finally managed to lift the war horse clear of the ground. Raising his face to the quickly darkening sky, the ealdorman spoke again.

“An ash I know there stands,

Terror Horse is its name,

the bane of the hanged, a rare fruit;

As the horse fought to free itself, the hanging tree shook and creaked as the grim faced men dug in their heels and took up the strain. As the struggles of the terrified horse began to abate and its kicks grew increasingly spasmodic, the great bulk broached and its tongue lolled from its mouth as Wonred approached.

“Terror Horse shivers,

the ash as it stands,

the old tree groans…”

He raised his spear and plunged it deep into the horse's flank, making the dedication as the light from the brands flickered and played about the mail and weapons which ringed them.

“You hung on a windy tree nine long nights,

wounded with a spear, dedicated to Woden,

yourself to yourself,

on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run…”

Wonred thrust the spear upwards and the horse kicked out a final time as the blade divided its great heart.
As the blood from the sacrifice ran the length of the spear shaft to gush from its base, the warriors came forward to anoint their own weapons as they readied themselves for war.

EIGHTEEN

“Here she is lord, our masterpiece.”

Osric pulled open the rickety door and ducked inside. Eofer and Sæward followed on, eager to take the first glimpse of their new scegth. Both men inhaled deeply as the distinctive smells of the boat shed washed around them, tar, pitch, the sharp tang of oak and pine. The pair exchanged a look and Eofer's ship master was the first to break the silence. “It's a masterpiece all right,” he breathed. “What a beauty!”

Osric led them forward, the pride in the work of his team obvious to all. He ran a hand lovingly along the curve of her sheer strake as he described the ship to the wonderstruck men. “Six strakes each side, same as before. I have asked one of the lads to bring his brother down to the sheds, lord. The man can carve a scene that's so lifelike you'd think that it was real.” Osric flashed them a smile. “May as well have the best when the king is paying for it eh!” He hopped up onto a bench. Shuffling to the end as Eofer and his duguth joined him, he rested his arms on the gunwale and peered inside. “As you ordered, lord, the same dimensions as the
Fælcen
. Twelve thwarts with twenty-four tholepins, a dozen a side. No through-deck and,” he pointed to the bow and stern, “a steering platform at either end with a complete rudder assembly at each, just like you wanted.” Sæward's features broke into a smile as the shipwright described the extra fitting. “There's not much you can see now that the planking is in place, but it's all there. You can see the strengthening block where it emerges from the deck, the rudder rib and the withy are hidden, but the boss and rudder band remain in place at all times. You'll have the rudder where you need it in no time.” Osric rubbed his chin as he looked sidelong at the pair. “If you don't mind me asking, lord, why do you want to be able to mount the rudder at either end?”

Sæward exchanged a look with his eorle and Eofer nodded that he should explain. “We will use the ship to follow the rivers, deep into the lands of the Franks and the Britons. The shallow drought of the scegth allows us to raid almost up to the headwaters of the rivers there, large and small, places which never thought to see an English ship. But,” he shrugged, “there is never enough room to turn the ship when the time comes to beat a hasty retreat.”

“Sometimes very hasty!” Eofer added with a snort of amusement. Looking up he noticed that Osric's artisans had paused at their work and were listening to the tale. He beckoned them over with a jerk of his head. “Come across and hear the importance of your work. We often owe our lives to your craftsmanship, you deserve to know how much it means to us.”

The men downed tools and sauntered across. A pair of them had been hammering in what looked to be the final nails as they fixed the thwarts to the side strakes. Unlike the heavier ships they had seen in the South, the English shipyards always constructed the hulls from the outside in. The keel was scarfed into the bow and stern posts and then the side strakes added until the shell of the hull was complete. The frames known as the thwarts were then added to brace the hull, iron nails driven through from the outside and cleated over a small square piece of iron known as a rove. Strong and flexible, the ships were ideal for use in the shallow waters of the German Sea and the rivers which ran into it.

Eofer ran his eyes along his new ship for the first time as the men assembled, admiring her sleek lines, comparing her to the
Fælcen
and finding nothing to fault.

Sæward asked a question of his own. “What about the tholepins? If we swap the rudder around, the hook of the thorn will be pointing back the wrong way. We won't be able to row.”

The shipwright clapped him on the shoulder. “We have included a few mallets in the tool chest, amidships. Pop the tree nails out the same as you would any belaying pin and switch them around when needs be. It should take you no time, you'll be leaving these wealas shouting at your wake.”

Eofer nodded, satisfied. “When can she be launched?”

Osric exchanged a look with his leading artisan who pursed his lips and nodded. Obviously the matter had already been discussed between the two. Now he was confirming the shipwright’s own assessment. “Tomorrow morning, if we stay late tonight lord. There is a little bit of tarring to touch up and the pine fittings need to be added, the oars and such like. They come from stock, we always have a supply to hand. We can step the mast and get a team of riggers in to finish her off tonight. It shouldn't be hard to drag them away from their ale this once, they all know we do the king's work. Fit her a sail and she's done, the design on the sheer strake can be added later. I'll fit her with a wind vane for now, no doubt you will want to replace it with your own design when you get the chance.”

Sæward's triumphant smile told them all that he had been waiting a long time for just this moment. Slipping a bag from his shoulder he undid the ties which bound it and brought out a large object wrapped securely in a red cloth. Carefully unfolding the leaves of the bundle, Sæward revealed
the old bronze weathervane from the
Fælcen
wrapped in the storm weathered flag of Engeln.
He turned to Eofer and smiled proudly at the look of surprise on his lord's face. “I had Bassa and Beornwulf shimmy up the mast before the flames engulfed them, lord. Never seen them move so fast,” he added with a chuckle. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”