Fire & Steel (8 page)

“Who is your worst bowman?”

Indignant, Grimma pulled himself upright. “I don't have bad bowmen, lord.”

Eofer chuckled. “No, of course, I will put the question another way. Which of you three has the weakest draw?”

The bowman gasped and began to splutter a reply before Eofer cut him short. “There is a reason I am asking. It's important.”

Grimma was clearly wrestling with his conscience as both bowmen were within hearing distance. He leaned in with a compromise solution. Lowering his voice to a whisper he indicated the bows with a jerk of his head. “The lassie is good with a bow, lord. She is not as strong as the lads here, but she is as accurate as any.”

Eofer watched the bronze plate of the weather vane as the cockscomb straightened and snaked towards the Frankish ships. The sealskin tassels told the steersman the moment that the wind shifted but today it blew steadily. In truth it was unnecessary. The final blows from the storm were whipping the waves into white caps, long tendrils of spindrift echoing the actions of their man-made brethren above. Spearhafoc turned her head to him, twin fingers curled around the bowstring, a shaft nocked. “I think that I can reach them from here.”

He nodded as her companions craned to watch the strike. “Try to hit the steersman,” he smiled. “It always gets their attention.”

She rolled her eyes at her eorle, and her fellow hearth warriors laughed as she offered him the bow. Eofer laughed along with the others, but he felt that he was beginning to get the measure of the girl now. She would strain every sinew of her body to hit the man now that the challenge had been made. The leading ships were well within the range of Grimma and his bowmen, and the
Fælcen
banked to bæcbord as Sæward put the helm about to run parallel with their foe.

They had arrived not a moment too soon. The Frankish ships, although heavy and unwieldy, had weathered the storm well, their bulk lending them a stability which was denied the sleeker longships of their Geatish prey. Eofer had seen immediately that the Frankish commander meant to trap the Geats in a bay a little further along the coast. Standing off from the nearby string of islands he had cleverly bided his time as he patiently waited for the wind and tide to dash his enemy against the shore. Denied sea room, the Geats were unable to use their sails to tack so close to a lee shore and the oarsmen were clearly tiring fast. A long low promontory, little more than a sandy bar, stood proud of the coastline a mile ahead, a dirty white fringe marking the breakers which pummelled the shore there. Ribs and masts littered the strand like the sun bleached bone-cages of sea monsters. The Geats were rowing to their doom and they would know it.

Eofer stood back and gave Spearhafoc room as she raised the bow and drew the bowstring to her cheek. Glancing across to Grimma he recognised the look of approval on the experienced bowman's face as the young woman calmed her breathing, bringing it into harmony with the rise and fall of the ship. Spearhafoc's eyes flitted between her target and the coil and curl of spume as the wind teased it from the wave crests and her body relaxed as she made the final adjustments to her posture. Suddenly she released with a grunt, and the heads of the men turned together to follow the flight of the arrow. The missile sped away, its slender shaft aimed far to the rear of the Frankish ship, but as the men watched in eager anticipation the gusting wind slowly pushed its head around to the East.

Eofer was amused to see that hundreds of Franks were mirroring their actions, their hands shading their eyes as they followed the flight of the dart. The point dipped as the shaft sped towards its target, now obvious to all as the steersman on the leading Frankish ship, and they held a collective breath as they began to realise just how good the shot was. Driven on by the powerful following wind, the arrow bore down to flash between the steersman and the heavy stern post just feet to his rear. It had been a remarkable shot, and the men of the troop whooped with joy at the skill of their new friend.

Eofer joined the laughter and turned to congratulate the woman but stopped as he saw her spit in disgust and nock another shaft. As Spearhafoc drew the bow and sighted he called for quiet, and a hush descended on the men as they waited for the next arrow to fly. A gull seemed to appear from nowhere, and the men laughed nervously as it hung suspended in the line of sight. But Spearhavoc's concentration was absolute and the moment that the bird sailed upwards with a harsh parting cry the arrow sped away.

Eofer looked back across to the Franks and saw that men were attempting to attract the attention of the steersman to the threat but the man, his eyes fixed on the Geat ships ahead, seemed oblivious. The wind had increased again, and the arrow was already into its final death dive as Eofer looked back at the target. Shifting his gaze to the Frank, Eofer gripped the gunwale in excitement and waited for the dart to arrive. Across the waves men were pointing to the sky and calling out a warning but, just as the steersman seemed to become aware of the approaching danger the arrow flashed down to take him in the neck.

The men on the
Fælcen
yelled in triumph as the Frank clutched at the shaft, staggering to one side before falling forward and becoming hidden from view by the curve of the hull. As the men of the troop cheered and called, their eorle nodded to Grimma and within moments the three bowmen had nocked and loosed. The arrows flew true and spattered the steering platform of the disabled ship as the Franks desperately attempted to bring her head back on course. It was enough and, driven to steerbord by the wind and the running seas, the leading ship swung out of line and smashed into the vessel to landward. Suddenly the lee shore beckoned the ships of the Frankish fleet and the English watched joyfully as the pursuit, seemingly so unstoppable only moments before, descended into chaos as hulls collided and yards fouled bringing masts and rigging crashing down onto the decks below.

As the larger part of the fleet sought to extricate themselves from the crush, a ship pointed her bows seaward and oars slipped proud of the hull to stroke the sea as the outraged Franks attempted to overtake their tormentor. It was now that the foresight of their thegn became apparent to the troop as the unwieldy ship, wide of beam and heavy with men and equipment, struggled to make headway against the choppy swell. A volley of arrows arced into the air and sped towards the men of the
Fælcen
but, loosed into the teeth of the wind storm, they quickly faltered and put their heads into the sea.

Waves slapped the hull, splashing inboard as Sæward pushed away the handle of the steering board and shook the scegth free of the coast. The lithe, leaf shaped hull of the English ship skimmed the surface and sped away from its pursuer as Bassa and Beornwulf hauled on the braces, resetting the yard to capture the wind. The
Fælcen
put the coastline and its mayhem astern as the men of the troop jeered and called at the pathetic efforts of the Frankish bowmen to reach them with their shafts.

To the North, the Geat ships had grasped their lifeline and were rowing with all the vigour of the saved to escape the trap, their long oars glistening as they rose and fell like the wings of a mighty bird. Eofer exchanged a smile with Spearhafoc.

“Let's go and see who we have delivered from
wyrd
. Big ships like those are bound to carry a lot of ale!”

SEVEN

The sun was a memory when the time came to touch brand to kindling. A moon, full and bright in the southern sky, glossed the cap of the pyre as it reflected from the steel of mail shirts, helms and swords.

Ringed by flames, the bier had drained the last reserves of strength from the exhausted Geats but no man, with wound or without, had shirked the duty as they had scoured the strand and stripped the ships for fuel.

Heardred said his piece and thrust the first torch into the base of the shield ringed pile. Soaked with fats and oils from the stores aboard the ships, the flames flickered and grew as the Geat leader withdrew into the shadows and dozens of brands arced across to join his own. Drawing aside, the warriors exposed the flames to the full force of the onshore breeze and the smouldering stack transformed itself into a roaring, living thing. As the flames sawed and rose higher with each gust, Heardred Hygelacson turned and led his men away.

A voice rose into the night air from the watching English and the Geats stopped almost to a man and glared.

“The fire crackled.

The wind blew.

The Geats went to Valhall with the smoke…”

Eofer whirled around and spat through gritted teeth. “Oswin, not now! They think that you are making fun of them.” His mind raced and he could see the rest of his troop wincing and shifting uncomfortably. Looking at the faces of the Geats, only the fact that they owed their lives to the men before them and their own state of weariness was keeping the stern faced men from drawing their weapons. An idea came to him and he grabbed at it. “Get yourself down to the dunes and relieve Porta. Tell Rand that Cæd will relieve him soon.” He jerked his head and Oswin hurried off, the look on his eorle's face alone being enough to tell him that speed was important. As the tension of the moment drained away and the warriors of both nations began to disperse, Heardred crossed the beach. “Who was that, kinsman?”

Eofer pulled a pained expression. “Oswin word-poor, one of my youth.”

To Eofer's relief, the Geat laughed. “Word-poor, I'll say! I thought that it was another example of your unfathomable English humour.”

Relieved that no offence had been taken at such an emotionally charged moment, Eofer added with a chuckle. “We called him Oswin shit-poet when he first began to spout a verse or two. At least he is improving!”

They shared a laugh and Heardred indicated the rapidly receding figure with his head. “Any good?”

Eofer shook his head. “Spear fodder,” he sniffed. “I owe his father, but the truth is the lad seems to be as thick as a horse's prick.”

They laughed again and the Geat held the Englishman by the shoulders and fixed him with his gaze. In the gloom the Geatish warriors exchanged tired smiles as they gathered with their friends and cleared a space on the strand. Their lord was laughing. The world was righting itself after the chaos and they could begin to look to the future.

“Eofer, I am in your debt once again. I never thought that I would laugh again after this day.”

The Engle nodded in the direction of a nearby tree stump, bone pale in the moonlight, its bole worn smooth by countless tides. Too large and twisted for the pyre, it had escaped the axes of the tired men. “Are you up to telling the tale?”

Heardred stifled a yawn but nodded. The left side of his face was encrusted with dried blood and his shield arm had warded so many blows that there was barely a paler patch among the angry purple bruises, but the Geat knew that the story of that day needed to be told. “I need to unburden myself,” he placed a hand on Eofer's shoulder as they made their way across, “and I can think of no better victim than my childhood friend, the husband of my only sister.”

Thrush Hemming appeared from the gloom and handed each man a horn of ale, melting away with a nod and a grin.

Heardred took a pull and indicated the receding figure with his horn. “Why Thrush?”

Eofer circled his face with his hand. “The freckles, he looks like the bird.”

Both men lowered themselves onto the stump with a sigh. It had been a hard day for them both.

Clear of the spit, the Geat drakkar had hoist their sails in an instant, leaving the Frankish ships floundering on the coast. The big sheets had billowed and the sleek warships had shot free from the trap. The
Fælcen
had skimmed the waves as Sæward brought her within hailing distance and Eofer had been surprised and delighted to recognise the grinning face of his kinsman as the Geat crew called and cheered. Relieved of the need to row, the exhausted men had still found the strength to acclaim their rescuers, and the scegth had passed through the dragon ships accompanied by the rhythmic beat of ash spears on linden boards.

Eofer drank again and was the first to break the silence. “This was the perfect place to beach the ships. Have you used it before?”

Heardred swallowed noisily and cast his eyes about the island. The moon was edging above the dunes to the South, painting the narrow strand with its milky light and turning the sea beyond, calm now after the fury of the storm, into beaten silver. He shook his head. “My cousin told me it was here. He uses it on his forays across to Britannia.”

Eofer remembered the Geat champion and threw his friend a sidelong glance. If the king had fallen in battle, the man would be a rival for the vacant kingship. “Did he escape?”

Heardred shook his head. “He was never there. He was sent with gifts to assure the Saxons of our friendship in case they felt threatened by the raid on their border. He was to join up later if he could, but he had to escort the Danish warloca, Unferth, to the midsummer
blot
at the Irminsul first.” Eofer looked surprised and the ætheling shrugged. “It would seem that the Allfather still has plans for my kinsman.”

Eofer realised the importance of the revelation immediately. If the war god
was
scheming, Heardred could be sailing home to his death. He placed a hand on Heardred's arm and gave him an earnest stare. Despite the dangers, kin were kin.

“You have my sword if you ask, or a haven at my hall.” He gave the Geat what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “If old one-eye comes calling, I'll spit in it!”

Heardred smirked. “I will face my wyrd. If Beowulf has beaten me home, I doubt that he will take the king-helm even if it is offered. We talked about this when we were
wræcca
together in Swede Land and he promised me his support.” He paused and nodded. “I know that as exiles it was an easy declaration to make, but I know my cousin as well as any man. He may be a famous monster killer, but he harbours no ambition to take on the responsibilities of kingship, the lack of freedom would drive him mad.”

Eofer was unconvinced. “Words are a fine thing, but once that kingly grim-helm is brought out any man would be tempted. If he feels that it is the Allfather's will...”

The eorle let the statement hang in the air, but Heardred shook his head and smiled. “If it's Woden's will, I have done enough to sup in his hall. I will join my father at his ale bench and await the end of days.”

“You are sure that Hygelac is dead then? He may have escaped.”

Heardred pulled a wry smile. “Unless his body can make its way home alone,” he snorted, “about as sure as I could ever be. The Franks were taunting us with my father's head impaled on the end of a spear for most of the chase!”

The Geat glanced at his ale as he swilled it around before sinking the dregs in one. Eofer pointed to his drinking vessel and Thrush Hemming, attentive as ever, loped across with a full barrel as his eorle attempted to move the subject on to happier days.

“Tell me about the raid. We were still in Anglia when you landed among the Hetware and all seemed well. After that we were in the South and news was sparse.”

Hemming refilled the horns and placed the barrel at their feet. Heardred shot him a smile of thanks as he began to tell the story of Hygelac's Raid.

“They were completely unprepared for us at first. We hit the northern coast and defeated the local forces before splitting the army. We moved south, skirting the Ælmere while the ships, under half crews, shadowed us. The Frisian king, Ida, never concentrated his forces but just committed them piecemeal so we just swept them aside.” He took a long draught from his horn and grinned. “It couldn't have been easier. Once we put the inland sea behind us we fortified a base at a place called Dorestada and used it to raid further south. The great River Rin flows there as it approaches its estuary on the German Sea. Using it we could raid with our ships deep into Frankland, that and the other rivers there, the Woh, Masa, Sceald.” He shrugged. “It was perfect. The countryside was rich and fairly groaning with food. We spent the best part of the summer there and never saw so much as a hostile cow, never mind an enemy spear.”

Eofer shook his head in wonder. The southerners had a reputation for easy living among the people of the North, but he knew from his experience in Britannia that the people were tough, good spear men. Their leaders however were callow fools, always putting personal gain before the good of their folk. It appeared that the same had happened to the Franks. Maybe it was the Christ god, he reflected. Wherever he was worshipped the poor grew poorer and the rich, richer. Eofer came back as his kinsman concluded his tale.

“The days started to shorten and men wanted away with their spoils. With every day's passing you could sense the feeling grow a little more. Eventually Hygelac decided that the raid was over. I took the fleet down the Rin and the king was to follow on with the men who remained with him.” Heardred glanced up and pulled a weary smile. “We knew that we were taking a chance, dividing the army, but the ships were overloaded as it was. It was late in summer and the river was at its lowest ebb, it would only take a few ships to get stranded in a shallow and block the channel and we would all have been in a vulnerable position.” He shrugged. “Maybe they were watching us, but I think that it was just
wyrd
,
the way that it is.
After a summer of gods-luck, ours gave out at the moment of most danger. My father and his men were obviously overtaken by an army from the south and the next thing that I know the estuary of the Sceald is spewing forth dragon ships and galleys. Heavily laden on a lee coastline with a rising swell, short of men...” He shrugged again. “I don't need to tell you what it was like. Only the full onset of the storm and superior seamanship saved those that managed to get away.”

A hand gently shook his shoulder. Eofer forced his lids apart and sighed wearily as he attempted to focus on the figure crouched over him. Imma Gold was there; the big duguth's teeth flashed red in the firelight. “The Golden Mares are back in the East lord, Treachery snapping at their heels.”

Eofer took the cup. Sipping, he fought against the desire to retch. Against his will, he screwed up his face as he forced out what would have to pass for a witty reply. He didn't feel very witty, but it was expected. “Ask Shining Mane to pull the sun in a circle for a while. Maybe the wolf will get dizzy.”

Imma chuckled dutifully, his golden hair falling to frame his face as he looked down at the suffering form of his eorle. Eofer took another sip and rolled from his cloak. Ambling over to the surf he relieved himself with a sigh. There was something deeply satisfying about the sound of water meeting water.

The English were a solid block a little along the beach and Eofer took up a brand from the watch fire and crossed to the place where he knew that Heardred lay rolled in his own cloak and wondered. His kinsman had woken yesterday as an ætheling, does he do so this day as a king? He nudged Heardred with his foot rather than lean over him with the flame, aware that a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on him in the darkness. They at least regarded their lord as the rightful king of Geatland, and the Engle knew that a sudden move could well prove to be his last, kin or no.

Eofer knelt at his cousin's side and nudged his shoulder with the cup. “Brother, the dawn is near.”

Heardred nodded without opening his eyes, and a hand reached out from his cloak. Taking the cup he took a sip, inhaled deeply and rolled from his bedding. The Geats rose from the ground with a clatter of arms as the first lightening showed in the East. Heardred jerked his head towards the dark outlines of his ships, dispatching men hither and yon as they prepared to depart, and Eofer watched in admiration as the weary and battle-worn
here,
the raiding army of the previous day was replaced by a purposeful brotherhood of warriors.

The anchorage had been well chosen. Steeply sloping, the ships could be drawn up to the shore with little danger of stranding by the outgoing tide, and already men were back aboard preparing the vessels for sea. As others carefully raked through the remains of the bale-fire, sifting the ashes of their companions and placing them carefully into earthenware containers for the journey home to kith and kin, Eofer caught up with Heardred as the Geat shed his grime encrusted clothing and shot him a look. “Coming in?”

Eofer grinned and began to strip off as Rannulf, Heardred's own weorthman, replaced his lord's soiled clothing with clean items from the ship. The sky was lightening in furrows, bands of washed out lilac in a rinse of grey, with just the solid point of light which was the morning star remaining to shine like a distant beacon. They would soon be away. The ætheling ducked beneath the surface and emerged a moment later, shaking his hair to spray his friend with a laugh. The years rolled away and with them the responsibilities of their adult life, with just the nagging concern which all naked men feel when standing chest deep in murky water to spoil the moment. The shallows were unexpectedly warm and both men felt quickly reinvigorated as the cares of the previous day sloughed off them with the grime.

Eofer looked at Heardred earnestly as the Geat sipped seawater and worked the brine around his teeth with a finger. “The offer of my sword still holds, kinsman, Blood-Worm is yours. My father would supply an army to bolster your claim, you only need to say the word.”