Fire & Steel (7 page)

The sun was lower in the southern sky, the slanting light painting the crests of the waves the colour of silver as the long days of summer drained away. Eofer thought back on the conversations which he had had within the settlement at Theodford and later, when they had called at the burh of Bunoncga-haye. Sited on higher land where the Wahenhe took a great bow to the North, Bonna, the thegn who had lent his name to the fortress at the neck of the peninsula, had worried the eorle with tales of encroaching Wulfings, Saxons and even Swæfe. It had added to the general feeling of unease which he had sensed among the beleaguered settlers, and as the water meadows and woodlands of the interior had drawn back to become the salt marsh and reed beds of the coastal strip, it had strengthened his resolve to press his father, an ealdorman and trusted retainer, to bring the matter to the king's urgent attention when next they met. He had seen the interior of Britannia and he was sure now in his own mind that the future of a vibrant and proud people such as the English lay there. It would be madness to let their hold on such a land slip away without a fight.

Sæward's cry brought the eorle's thoughts back to the present as he pointed away to the South and exchanged a grin with his lord. A longship, the wolf's head pennant of the Wulfings flying proudly from its mast top, had chosen prudence over duty and was edging further inshore as the English fleet bore down upon it, their own dragon banners teased out to the East in a cat's paw of wind. Eofer had found the duguth safely ensconced within the stone walls of Cnobheresburg and, despite the fact that it had not entered their heads to send word of their return onward to Theodford, all had been quickly forgotten as the steersman and his youth told the tale of their escape and heard the story of the fighting at Cerdicsford for the first time.

As the ships of the fleet came abreast the estuary of the Gipping they turned together and put their prows to the sea. Eofer took a last look at the low dark hills which backed the shoreline there and smiled with satisfaction. It had been a good year. He had prospered and enhanced his reputation; soon he would be riding the path which led to his hall. Already he could picture Astrid at the door, little Weohstan running to greet his father. A quick trip across the cold waters of the German Sea and he would be there. The army of his kinsman, King Hygelac, was raiding in the lands of the Franks and Frisians opposite and Eofer toyed with the idea of seeking them out en-route but discounted it. The season was well advanced and the best pickings would already be safely stowed in Geatish hulls. It had been the talk of Anglia and many men had left to try their sword arm, despite the actions of the Britons on the frontier.

The sun shone steadily, the light airs matched his mood and he relaxed as the
Fælcen
ploughed the sail road. The Allfather had flicked back the curtain which hid the future from the eyes of men, offering him a glimpse of the path ahead for his people and the part he must play in it. The weather was perfect for the crossing, a lazy passage and he would be home before the new moon waned.

SIX

The thegn scanned the horizon and chewed his lip. It didn't look good. It didn't look good at all.

Sæward wiped his hands on the seat of his trews and took a firmer grip on the steer bord. “Look at it move!”

Away to the South, a boiling rampart of darkness was bearing down on the ships of the English fleet, and the pair watched as the steersmen instinctively hauled at their own big blades and fanned out. They would need all the sea room they could get, and soon. The storm was little more than a mile or so distant now, moving quickly, the leading edge pulsing as lightning bolts flickered with silent menace.

The sea was already coming alive and the
Fælcen
began to saw as white caps showed alongside, creamy waves slapping against the strakes of the sleek longship as they shot by.

The men exchanged a look, Sæward spoke; “Half way?”

Eofer risked a glance to the South and was horrified to discover that the storm front had already gobbled up half the distance to them. He shook his head, crying out against the force of the freshening wind as he began to make his way down the ship. “A third, any more and we will be lucky if we only lose the sail. If the mast goes over the side...”

The crew had gathered amidships, and they wrenched their faces away from the wall of death as their eorle approached.

He would need the strongest, most experienced men at the oars if they were to ride this one out. Eofer snapped out his orders. “Duguth, you row. Lash your oar to the tholepin and keep us from broaching.” He turned to the expectant faces of the younger warriors. “Youth, you bail.”

Rounding on the two dark haired lads, he stabbed out a finger. “Crawa, Hræfen, lower the spar two-thirds and square it off. Reef the sail to a third, then I want you to stand by the sheets. Keep your eyes on the sail. If it looks like it is about to blow out forget pulling the pins, just use your knife to cut them.” He flashed them a smile of encouragement. “Better to go two sheets to the wind than swim home.”

The twins gave a nervous laugh and scampered off to their task as Eofer cast a look of longing at the twin wash strakes lying snugly on the cross trees amidships. Fixed along the gunwale they were used to raise the freeboard in heavy seas but, casting a look beyond the sweep of the stern, Eofer could see that it was already too late to peg them into place. The storm was upon them.

The crew looked up as a dark hand reached out to smother the sun and a spray of raindrops, as large and heavy as peas, swept across to freckle the deck.

Eofer hurried back to the steering platform, ready to throw his weight alongside the steersman. A last glance outboard and he gasped at the terrible beauty as the English ships, islands of colour and life in a vista of purple and black, were swallowed by the monster.

In the blink of an eye the
Fælcen
was engulfed. Wind and wave searched out the smallest chink in their defences and found one as the power of the first roller nudged the stern aside. It was only a fraction but it was enough, and the following wave smashed into the tall stern post like a shield strike, the ship recoiling from the blow and offering up a glimpse of her flank to the onrushing madness. As the
Fælcen
began to broach, Eofer threw himself bodily into Sæward and desperately added his weight to the push. Both men grimaced with effort and fear as they stared down at the shredded waves which threatened to swamp them. The steerbord sheer strake was kissing the sea, they were a heartbeat from the end as she began to respond and drag herself back to an even keel.

Before the ship could right herself the next wave shovelled the stern, thrusting it skyward as the bows disappeared in a mantle of spray, but she was a well-found ship and she lived up to her name, lithe, fearless; a hunter. Rising again from the swell, she shook the water from her timbers and forged ahead. As the great hooked beak of the prow crept around, Eofer scanned the deck and the breath caught in his throat as he saw that the boy, Hræfen, was missing from his place at the steer bord side. As his eyes moved out to search the wind-torn surface of the sea for any sign of the lad, the arm of Imma Gold reached out from his place at the benches and casually plucked a dark mass from the waters, depositing it in the scuppers like a bundle of sodden rags. As the big warrior bent to his oar, the eorle watched with pride as the bundle came back to life and the boy dragged himself back across to his station by the steer bord sheet. Kissing the lashing which had saved his life, Hræfen resumed his watch on the tortured sail.

Up for'ard, Eofer saw that Spearhafoc had taken up a position in the bows. Balanced perfectly she was a young woman of many talents, and he was pleased with the qualities which she had added to his war-band. Cocky, deadly with the bow, the youth had soaked up the teachings of the guda in Theodford like parched soil after a summer storm.

The tawny feathers of the hen Sparrowhawk corkscrewed from her hair as the gale snatched away her invocation to Ran, mother of the waves, Spae-Wife of the sea god Gymir. Bracing herself in the very upturn of the prow as her daughters hurtled past only feet away, Eofer saw silver flash as an offering to the goddess, and he smiled as he lipread the last words of an invocation:

…the stormy breast-driven wave;

With red stain running out of Ran’s white mouth.

The gale set up an unearthly howl in the rigging, fire bolts danced at the masthead but, with the ship running steadily before the gale, Eofer knew that the worst moments were already behind them. Clinker built in good English oak from the Wolds near his hall, the hull flexed and sang as the little scegth was driven before the white caps like the pure-blood she was.

He relaxed his grip on the steer bord and let Sæward run her on. They shared a look, and each man knew just how close they had come to joining the legions of those lost at sea, spending an eternity in Gymir’s wet-cold hall.

Sæward leaned across, and they shared a laugh as the steersman cried above the noise. “That was fun. Shall we do it again?”

Eofer cupped his hand and cocked his head as he strained to hear. Still the wind snatched the words away and hurled them to the East. The worst of the storm had left them as quickly as it had arrived but the sky remained a broth of purple and black, almost as if it had been bruised by the violence which had gone before, the sea choppy. Visibility was still poor and he had sent the nimblest of the youth up the mast to see if any other English ships were within sight as the yard was hauled and the sail shaken out.

He cast a questioning look at Sæward but the big steersman only shrugged, laughter dancing in his eyes. Eofer sighed and hopped from the steering platform, tossing a remark to the rows of smiling faces as he picked his way through a tangle of limbs.

“If you want something done well...” he threw out as he skipped from thwart to thwart. A chorus erupted from the upturned faces, and the eorle joined in the laughter which followed as the answer to his question came back in a yell.
“Do it yourself!”

Reaching the mast he gripped the lower peg and scurried aloft. Away from the shelter of the deck the wind redoubled and Eofer clung on tightly as he climbed. The sail was as full as a fat man's shirt, the shroud lines sang and, at the masthead, the white dragon pennant writhed then snapped taut with each new gust.

The boy, Bassa, looked fearful as he came up alongside him but Eofer shot him a grin and a heartening wink. Clear of the sail, he rested his arm on top of the spar and called above the last of the gale. “What?”

Bassa hugged the mast and pointed away to the East. “There are a large number of ships over there, sailing north.”

Eofer blinked to clear his vision as the
Fælcen
crested a wave, searching hard. The horizon was blanketed in mist and spray, but he saw nothing in the moments before the ship lowered her prow and descended into the next trough. “You are sure?”

Bassa gave a firm nod. “Yes, lord, it looked like two groups. A larger group chasing a smaller one.”

The
Fælcen
lifted her bows, hauling herself up the side of the next grey wall, and Eofer squinted into the gloom again. Still nothing. If they
were
his countrymen they were not where he had expected them to be and he hesitated to approach a lee shore in this weather. Only the gods could know just how far the storm had carried them, and the coast of Frisland could not be far off in the murk. The eorle had a vision of the islands and sand bars which girdled the coast there and shuddered. “How many?”

The boy threw him a cheeky smile. “I have young eyes, lord. I am not a wizard!”

Eofer suppressed a smile and stared at the lad. Admonished, the boy cleared his throat as the smirk dissolved and fell away. “Half a dozen or so in the lead group, maybe a score or more in the chasing pack. I can't say any closer than that. I only got a quick glimpse before it all closed in again.” He looked away momentarily as the wind snatched the breath from him. Taking a gulp of air he turned back. “There's another thing, lord.”

Eofer shifted his weight as he awaited the revelation. The masthead was not the most comfortable place to be at the best of times and this was far from that. “Well, if you don't tell me quickly,” he cried as the wind snatched at his words, “you will be beating me back to the deck, head first!”

Bassa paled, all the cheekiness of earlier driven from him. “I couldn't make out the flags, but it looked like the ships at the rear carried crosses at the masthead.”

Eofer let out a sigh. “Franks? Could they be chasing our ships?” He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face in a vain attempt at clearing away some of the salty spray which still fogged the air and stared back to the East. Still nothing. Looking back, he opened his mouth to question the youth again but Bassa's face was deadpan. “I am sure, lord.”

Eofer smiled at the boy's confidence and clapped him on the shoulder. Bassa's eorle was Eofer, king's bane. Men across the northern world knew the tale of his great deed. It took nerve to stand your ground against a man of reputation. “Very well, hawk eye, we shall go and have a look. Call down to one of the men below as soon as they reappear.” He smiled again. “It's unseemly for an eorle to scamper around at the beck and call of a youth!”

Eofer let himself slide back down to the deck, throwing a few words to the expectant faces as he returned to the steering platform. The wind was blowing steadily from the south-west. They would soon close with the ships and discover the identity of the mysterious flotilla. “It looks like the Franks may be hunting some of our ships. Get the baling finished and ready yourselves for a fight, just to be sure.”

Eofer hopped up onto the steering platform and opened his mouth to speak, but snorted as he saw that Sæward already had the handle of the steer bord hauled hard into his chest. The stern post began to swing to the north as the ship responded and, as if to light a beacon at their destination, a dagger of golden light stabbed down from a break in the clouds, their rims edged with gold.

The storm was lessening with every passing moment as its front rolled away to the north-east and soon Beornwulf was hurrying back to his lord with the latest report from the masthead. The young warrior, his face flushed with obvious disappointment, waited for his eorle to look his way and gave his report. “Bassa can see them clearly now. There are twenty-five ships in pursuit of four large warships. The main group are definitely Frankish but those in front are not our ships, lord. They fly the white boar at their masthead.”

Eofer exchanged a look of surprise with his steersman. “Geats? I thought that they would be back in their forests by now.”

Sæward gave voice to his thoughts. “Either the Christians have caught a few stragglers or King Hygelac's raid has met with a disaster.”

Both men shared a look of concern. The Geat king was Eofer's kinsman, the grandfather of his son. He had led a great host into the lands of the Frisians and Salian Franks early that summer, burning and plundering the rich lands at will. Merchants from the South had lived well on the English coast of Britannia that year as thegns and warriors alike plied them with ale to hear the latest news of the fighting there. Many English ships had slipped from the mouths of the eastern rivers, the Udsos, the Blithe, looking for opportunities to flex their sword arm and earn renown, and the weakness which had resulted in Anglia had encouraged the Britons in their attacks around Grantebrycge. It was always thus, Eofer sighed, but he had to admit that he had been as culpable as any that summer. It seemed that every man on the
Fælcen
had a friend or kinsman there.

Sæward spoke again. “Shall I come about, lord? We don't want to blunder into the middle of a sea fight alone.”

Eofer scanned the sky and pulled at his beard as he thought. The sky away to the South was clearing to a softer blue, marbled white, but the clouds were still moving on at a pace.

He shook his head. “We have the weather with us. Take us closer and stand off when their hulls appear above the horizon.” He sniffed and a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “I have an idea which may save these Geats from spending the rest of their days being buggered in a monastery.”

Eofer left the steering platform and made his way back along the thwarts between the rowers. Unlike the larger ships, the small scegth were not flush decked and any trip made fore or aft on the vessel involved negotiating either a series of hurdles or becoming an expert at keeping your footing. Eofer insisted that all of his men use the latter method. It was the best teacher of the art of balance and poise that he knew, invaluable in a fight. Reaching the mast he threw an arm around it and called out to the leader of the small knot of bowmen. “Grimma!”

Grimma and his men had taken passage on the
Fælcen
at Cnobheresburg
,
just before they had left the fortress for home. Not having the agility of a scegthman he drew amused smiles from the men of Eofer's hearth troop as he swung a leg and vaulted each thwart in turn to reach their eorle. “Lord?”