Authors: C.R. May
Eofer cursed as the degree of damage the tumble had caused his duguth became clear. “A dislocation! Shit!” he exclaimed. “You wont be going far with that, Oct.”
The surviving enemy troops were pinned safely against the riverbank and the immediate danger had receded, but they all knew that Octa could not be moved in his present condition, the pain would be unbearable and probably fatal. It would be an ignominious death for a warrior of his standing and Eofer was not surprised when the man spoke up. “Hand me my sword. Leave me here, lord.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat as he realised the futility of them.
“You have to leave before this Nathan arrives with his army. Prop me up and ride away.” Octa's fatalistic smile turned into a wince as another wave of pain shot through his body. “Think of me sinking Woden's mead when you are next sleeping under a bush in the drizzle.”
A small knot of Nathan's men, no more than a dozen, had become cut off from the main force in the chaos. Spear men had rounded them up nearby and they watched fearfully, already guessing their fate. If the barbarian had to leave one of his number here as they rode away he could not leave them alive to overwhelm the wounded man. They could be dead in moments.
Cerdic came up and Eofer hauled himself to his feet and forced a smile as the British leader clasped him in delight. As the magister took a step back, Eofer recognised the light of victory which shone in the Briton's eyes. It had been in his own before he had recognised Octa's boot.
“That was well done, Eofer,” he said. “The enemy swept away and a supply of horses to boot!”
A group of warriors hovered nearby headed by the magister's son, and Cerdic was again the leader as the smile fell away. He indicated the horses with a flick of his head. “Get going, ride like the wind.”
Cynric gave a curt nod and led the men across to the milling animals. Cerdic watched as they mounted up and hauled their heads to the North.
“It is little more than five or six miles from here to Sorbiodunum. Once they are aware of our presence here my friends will escort us safely home. I will not abandon my men and ride to safety, even with our destination so close. If the army from Venta do catch us between here and the fortress, Cynric will take my place at the head of the Christian forces.”
Cerdic's face took on a more sombre hue as he glanced at Octa and back to the eorle. “That's a bad twist. Is the leg fully out of joint?”
Eofer gave a slight nod.
“It's a fortune of war,” the Briton said sadly. “I am afraid that we can't wait.”
“The matter has already been discussed. Octa will remain here and die, sword in hand. I will join him in Valhall when the wyrd sisters decide the time has come to snip my own life thread.”
“Maybe,” Cerdic mused sceptically as he fingered the cross which hung at his neck, “maybe not. I respect the right of any man to choose his God, but I will pray for his soul along with those of my own men who died here today when we are safely in Sorbiodunum.” He shrugged as he raised a brow at the Englishman. “Unless you feel that it will offend your own gods. I am sure that you will agree that it shan't do any harm.”
The sounds of fighting tapered away from the riverside as the British and English warriors pulled back and waited for instructions from their leaders. Every man knew that they were still far from safety, and to continue fighting against a beaten enemy only invited unnecessary casualties among their own number and ate into the time which they needed to gain the refuge of the hill fort which was their goal.
Cerdic left Eofer with a pat of encouragement and stalked across, pushing his way to the front. As his men nervously looked on, their leader addressed the remaining knot of survivors, the closest of which stood little more than a spear's length away.
“Quickly throw your weapons into the Afen. Follow in their wake and you will live. Any man still standing on this side of the river will be killed when I reach my horse.” Cerdic spun on his heel and his men parted gratefully as he retreated out of danger. Within moments the first of the enemy had turned and slithered down the bank to splash into the shallows. As all opposition crumbled and the men seized the unexpected opportunity to survive the rout, the last of them tossed their spears aside and struck out for the opposite bank.
Their departure could be only moments away, and Eofer knew that the time to deal with the captives had arrived. Octa shuddered, a savage pain shooting through his body as Hemming and Imma began to prop him upright against the broad back of his fallen mount. Eofer led Osbeorn across to the sullen group. As he drew a breath to give the order to begin the slaughter, a voice cried out from the rear of the terror-stricken prisoners.
“I can fix that.”
As Cerdic's men drew their swords and prepared to strike, the voice called again in desperation.
“I said that I can fix your man's leg.”
Eofer hesitated and searched the group with his eyes. The voice came again and he realised for the first time that it carried the higher pitch of a young woman.
“If you spare these men I can have your man on a horse before the rest leave.”
Eofer eagerly grasped the chance to save his friend. “Come out, quickly. You have until Cerdic returns or you die along with the others.”
The body of Britons parted to allow a girl of about fourteen winters to make her way through. Clad in the russet colours typical of the lower sort, the young woman had brightened her appearance by attaching the long swarthy feathers of a hawk to her chestnut coloured hair. It lent her a wild appearance, and Eofer saw that her expression was resolute despite the nearness of death.
She drew up before him and held his gaze despite the difference in height, and a hint of steel came into her voice. “They leave first,” she said calmly.
Anger flared within him as he realised that he was in no position to bargain. The girl was Octa's only hope and she knew it.
He looked across to the men guarding the prisoners and snapped out an order. “Let them go.” As the men hesitated, unsure if they should follow the orders of a barbarian, he shouted angrily. “I said let them go. NOW!”
As Cerdic's men lowered their spears, the prisoners exchanged a look of disbelief at their fortune before they turned and pelted for the cover of the trees.
Eofer gripped the girl roughly by the sleeve and shoved her across. “Get it done, quickly,” he snarled, “or a spear in the guts will seem like a merciful death.”
Two of the Britons, an older man and what looked to be his son, had hung back from the fleeing captives and the girl shouted across to them as she crossed to where Octa lay. “Lose yourself in the greenwood. Go!” The younger man plucked at his father's sleeve, and the pair threw the girl a final look before reluctantly melting into the shadows.
“Lay him on his back,” she said to Hemming as she came up, “and give him something to bite down upon.”
As Hemming cut a length from Octa's belt and jammed it between his teeth, the girl knelt and worked her fingers into Octa's groin. His eyes widened again as the pain redoubled and the girl nodded to herself. “Hold his shoulders still,” she ordered gleefully, “this is going to
really
hurt!” Taking hold of his foot, she gingerly eased her own into the duguth's groin and exchanged a look with Hemming. The Englishman understood and lent his weight onto his friend's shoulders as the Briton heaved and gave the leg a sharp twist. Octa's eyes bulged as the leg jumped back into place with a dull click, and a moment later he spat out the leather and gasped with surprise. “The pain's gone!”
Broad grins spread around the group as the realisation that Octa's journey to Woden's high gabled hall had been postponed.
“He will need the leg splinted for a while, a spear will be ideal,” she said, “nice and straight.”
Eofer placed a hand onto her shoulder and gave it a squeeze in gratitude. He indicated the tree line with a jerk of his head as he slipped a gold ring from his finger and handed it to the wide-eyed young woman. “You have my thanks. Go and join your friends, before the warriors return from the riverside.”
To the thegn's astonishment the girl handed back the ring. “I have no need for gold. For payment I only ask that you take me with you lord,” she pleaded. “I can use a bow, and I know something of what you call leechcræft. Your man will need help with the pain for the next few weeks until any muscle tears heal.” Despite her earlier steeliness, the girl's lip began to tremble and she lowered her voice in a plaintive cry. “Please, lord.”
Eofer was taken aback, but a quick glance at his men confirmed the acceptance in their eyes. He gave a curt nod, his thoughts already returning to the need to be away from this place. “Retrieve your bow stave and travel with Octa. We will speak later.”
Mocking shouts carried across from the riverbank as the last of the enemy splashed across the river. His own duguth and youth back at his side, Eofer watched as Cerdic crossed to the horses and, back to his jovial self, shot him a grin. “Three to a horse, Eofer! Not quite the triumphant procession which I envisaged when we set out!”
Eofer turned to the English as they checked their weapons, gently stroking sharpening stones along their blades as they teased out a nick, restoring the edge after the fighting. “Well, you all heard the man. Let's get to this Sorbiodunum before the avenging horde arrives.”
FOUR
The road crested a small rise before slanting away into a wide vale as their goal came into sight. The sun chose that moment to break through the pillowy clouds to the East and a shaft of golden light played on the great grassy banks of Sorbiodunum.
Even at a distance the hill fort was impressive, and Eofer studied the defences with the practised eye of an attacker. Perched atop an isolated hill, a deep ditch was backed by a high bank which angled back to follow the contours of the hill itself. The raking light revealed that the outer bank was backed up by an inner ring which contained the town itself. A pale line capped this bank, indicating where the main defences were built. A wall of stone rose to the height of a ship's mast, above which a palisade of stout timber encircled the whole. Points of light glinted there as the sun reflected from the helms and spear tips of the defenders who were lining the walkway. What appeared to be the only entrance, pointing eastwards directly into the early morning sun, was guarded by a gatehouse which stood atop its own small hill before the high stone walls of the main gateway itself, its great archway visible even from distance. The sun was hot now, and a thin skein of wood smoke lay across the roofs of the town in the sultry air as the inhabitants prepared the first food of the day.
The riders exchanged broad smiles as their destination hove into view and Eofer snorted again at the rag-tag appearance of Cerdic's great relieving army. Most of the English horsemen had been able to mix in duguth with the smaller forms of their youth, but the Britons had been less fortunate and Eofer's mouth creased into a smile as he watched them now, bouncing along three-up on the backs of the labouring horses as they rode down into the vale.
A host of crows rose noisily into the air and passed them heading south as a lone shepherd, a timeless silhouette against the skyline, rested against his crook and held out a calming hand to the black and white dogs at his side. Movement from the town drew his eye back to the fortress as a dark line of horses left the great archway and snaked past the gatehouse. Clear of the town they broke into a gallop and they could see that each rider led a pair of spare mounts. Cerdic rode nearby, and he edged his own mount across as the end of their journey together approached. A quick glance to the east told them that the expected cloud of enemy horsemen had yet to appear and the leaders exchanged a smile. Natan had missed his best chance to end the war in a morning.
“Are you accompanying us into the fortress?”
Eofer pursed his lips. “I need to return to the ships. Is there an another road which will lead us there?”
Cerdic shook his head sadly. “I am afraid that the men you left there are already dead, my friend. If the Jutes did alert Natan's forces to our presence as seems likely, I am certain that they would have returned to Afen mouth in force to deal with the ships at first light. Trapped in the lagoon...” He hesitated and grimaced. “I am sorry.”
Eofer persisted. “Are there no other roads south?”
“Only tracks through the woodlands which we passed through during the night. Very few men live in the wilderness and most of the trackways which do exist, do so merely for the benefit of hunters and wolf heads.” He nodded across to the British girl who was busily massaging feeling back into Octa's groin, much to the amusement of those around them. “You can ask your new companion, they meander all over. The bay where you left your ships will be seething with our enemies, long before you can regain it.” He leaned across as the riders from the hill fort crossed the wide vale under a shroud of dust. “Fight for me, Eofer. I pay well for men with verve and intelligence, men such as yourself. Believe me,” he chuckled, “I have fought with many men during my time on God's Earth and they are qualities which are seldom found together within the same man.”
Eofer snorted. “Fight a war against my own gods? My ancestors await me in Valhall. A simple fight is one thing, a religious war quite another. I will not jeopardise that long-awaited reunion for silver.”
“You misunderstand this war, my friend,” Cerdic replied. “Which God a man turns to for succour is the least part of it. Many of the men who fight for our cause still follow the old gods of Albion, they have always held sway among the country folk.” He fingered the cross at his neck as he spoke. “God understands and loves them still. In time they flock to his light like moths to the flame of truth, and he will rejoice in it. God has sent me a vision, Eofer, a vision of the future. Nathan and his followers want to return the land to a mystical past, a land of druids and magic, but those days can never return. A spark has been lit today, the first kindling of a flame which will sweep the land of Britannia. These fields around you now are the crucible from which armies will go forth to unite the various civitates and chiefdoms, it will be one kingdom under one God, indivisible and strong.” Eofer watched as Cerdic's eyes shone with the fervour of his vision. “The process has already begun. Our cousins the Atrebates to the north have added their spears to ours. Beyond them their friends the Saxons of the Gewisse control the River Thamesis and the lands thereabouts.” He turned his charismatic smile on Eofer and the Englishman felt the power of the moment. “Wouldn't you like to play a part in the birth of a great nation, Eofer, to help inscribe the very first capitulum of its story? Think on it,” he urged. “If your people who have settled the old lands of the Iceni joined with the Gewisse, this nation would already stretch from the shores of the German Sea to the Soluente.”
Eofer snorted. “You forget that I am a lowly thegn, the leader of a war-band. My king still lives in our homeland across the German Sea, the new settlements are just that, lands which owe my king allegiance. I have no power there.”
Cerdic chuckled. “I think that you underestimate your influence, all men of worth have heard the tale of Eofer king's bane. Tell your prince of my plans here and remember,” he said, “there is always a place for you among us.” The Briton laid a hand on Eofer’s sleeve and fixed him with his gaze. “I offer you good land and honour, king’s bane. Dark soil in which to sink your roots. Settle your family here among us and I will make you one of my most powerful lords.”
Horns sang in the near distance and the pair looked up to see that the horsemen from Sorbiodunum had gained the ridge. They were only a mile or so away, hurrying on beneath their long-tailed banners of scarlet and gold. As Cerdic put spur to his horse and galloped forward to meet them Hemming caught Eofer's eye and he saw the excitement written there. Both men knew that the Briton was offering them all that they craved in life. Eofer allowed his eyes to run across the wide vale before them, and he breathed in the scent of the wildflowers which lay scattered about as his mind began to construct his new hall. He would journey home for the harvest and make his plans. Come the spring he would be a lord of the Belgae.
The returning sun was little more than a blush on the distant trees as the English riders rode out from the shadow of the great fortress. Thundering beneath the gatehouse, they slanted across the scarp and turned the heads of their mounts to the North.
Deadbeat after two days at sea followed by a night march and battle, Cerdic's Britons and Eofer's English alike had stayed at the celebrations which marked the return of the exiles no longer than good manners required. Shown to a guest hall nearby they had quickly settled down, and soon the space had echoed to the sound of sleeping men.
Eofer had delighted the Briton by accepting his offer of lordship, promising to return in the spring to swear his allegiance. To his surprise, Cerdic had laughed when Eofer had asked him for the best route to take, now that their ships were gone and they were about to traverse an unfamiliar country. The Briton had explained that Sorbiodunum lay at the southern end of the age-old road known as the Iceni Hill Way, which wove its way to the North-East and ended at the new English settlement of Theodford itself, his destination. The route which the English knew as the Great South Road could not have been more fortuitous, and the eorle wondered that the hand of Woden lay on this gods luck.
Cerdic had supplied the Engle with fresh mounts and remounts for their homeward journey as compensation for the loss of their ships, and the common folk stopped their work and watched in awe as hundreds of horses swept past the dew covered fields.
Clear of Sorbiodunum the road climbed steadily until it broke free of the woodlands, out on to a wide grassy plain. Dwynwyn, Octa's saviour, had kept to her word, and the duguth was already out of his splint and moving freely once the mash of herbs and seeds which the girl had concocted had dulled his pain. The Englishmen had found the girl's name almost unpronounceable and after gales of laughter had greeted every 'did you see us win, Dwynwyn?' and 'did you really give back a gold ring Dwynwyn?' it had quickly become obvious to Eofer that if she was to remain with his troop she would need to change her name, quickly. She, in her turn, had disliked the sound of the English names suggested by the men but finally they had settled upon the English name of the bird whose feathers she wore so proudly in her hair, Spearhafoc, the Sparrowhawk.
They had only spoken briefly the night before, but Eofer recalled that she had promised him that he would be passing through a landscape unlike any other the following day. He still knew little about the latest member of his hearth troop and, intrigued, passed word back through the column that she ride forward to join him at its head. She came up as the sun finally broke through to bathe the downland in its golden light, and Eofer ran his eyes across a vista of hills which rolled away to east and west. The Afen, the river which they had followed from the coast, ran nearby within its deeply incised valley, and Eofer idly wondered how long it would take the water which burbled across the rocks there to pass the site of the battle of the previous day and the burnt out hulks of his ships at its mouth. A carpet of hair grass stretched up to a stand of juniper, crowning a knoll like a young lad's unruly mop. Tall stalks of meadow brome, the sunlight playing from the purple ears as they swayed gently in the breeze, reminded him of the sea which he loved so much, and he felt a pang of regret as he was reminded of Sæward and the lads. Had they saved themselves? It would be some time until he found out for sure.
A polite cough brought his mind back from its meanderings and he saw that Spearhafoc was at his side. He was pleased to see that she rode well and, in her muted clothing of greens and browns, polished bow stave and full quiver, she certainly looked the part of a woodsman. He turned to her and smiled. “This is a beautiful place, is this the landscape you promised me?”
Her mouth turned up into a knowing smile and her face lit up in expectation. “No,” she replied, “trust me, you will remember this day for the rest of your life, lord.”
“Well,” he said as the horses walked on, “perhaps you can tell me a little about yourself while I await this great thing? You can begin by telling me how you learned to speak our tongue so well.”
“In a way,” she began, “it's the reason why I am here with you now. The men who were waiting for me at the tree line after the battle were my father and brother. They were the only ones who meant anything to me there, the only ones I was desperate to save. But I didn't want to return with them.”
Eofer took a swig from his water skin and handed it across. The day was warming up nicely and promised to become hot. Talking was thirsty work. She took a sip and smiled her thanks as she handed it back and explained.
“My family live within the great forest which you passed. We hunt there and trade the skins and meat in the towns and villages near the coast for fish, milk, cheese, bread,” she rattled off, “the usual stuff. When Nathan took over, he settled Jutes from Cent near the coast and across the water on Ictis. You might know it as Vectis,” she added as an afterthought. “Saxons have all but taken over the lands of the Regni, our neighbours to the East,” she explained, “and Aelle's son, Cissa, was forever raiding the borderlands. The Jutes hate the Saxons and they were settled there to keep them at bay.”
Eofer chuckled. “The Jutes hate everyone, especially the English.”
She widened her eyes in surprise and he explained. “The Jutish homeland lies to the north of my own, across the German Sea in Engeln. We have had many dealings with them over the years,” he said with a wolfish smile. “They are our favourite prey.”
A butterfly, its golden brown wings flicking erratically, settled on the ear of his horse and the beast flicked its head in irritation until it fluttered way. They shared a chuckle at the sight before she continued with her story.
“My father was keen to make friends among the Jutes, they bought a lot of our meat and pelts and he described them as the future. One of them took a shine to me and my father promised me to him when I reached my fourteenth year. Until then I had to learn their words so that I could take my place among them when the time came.”
“And when was that?”
“At the end of summer, lord, after the harvest.”
“So you ran away to join the barbarians.”
She grimaced. “I never saw myself as what you call a
wyf
, sitting at a loom and sweeping out the hut every day. My own mother is a healer, respected for her craft. I learned hunting from my father and the secrets of healing men and animals from my mother. They are rare gifts for a girl born in the backwoods and I wanted to be able to use them, so when I saw the chance I ran away with you, lord.”
He nodded, thoughtfully. Woden, the Allfather, was the god of healing and he roared through the sky at the head of the wild hunt every Jule eve. If the Allfather had sent this girl to aid him it could prove to be a powerful gift.
“I have seen your skill at leechcræft,” he said, nodding towards the bow which bounced at the horse's flank, “but I have yet to see you loose an arrow.”
She shot him a look and unhooked the stave from the saddle horn without a word. Bracing it against her hip she forced the bow into shape and hooked the bowstring to the nocks. Scanning the grassland to the East she nocked an arrow and sighted high. A soft grunt escaped her lips as the arrow was released and Eofer watched in bemusement as the shaft sailed into the empty sky.