Fire & Steel (9 page)

Heardred squirted out the contents of his mouth. “I know, brother. Don't think that I am ungrateful or that your friendship will ever be forgotten, but my uncle, Hythcyn, was put on the throne with the aid of a Bronding army and look how that turned out, war,
wræcscip
and the death of kings.” He shook his head. “You think that Woden deserted my father to put Beowulf on the gift-stool of the Geats and you may be right, but he is not the only god who schemes on Middle-earth.”

Heardred turned and waded ashore. As both men dressed, the last of their warriors were clambering aboard the ships and preparing to haul the anchors. Away to the South the twin figures of Finn and Æsc had left their vantage point and were hurrying back along the beach. As the last of the Geats returned to the ships, carrying the vessels containing the still warm ashes of their dead reverently before them, the friends embraced and Heardred flashed a grin. “Even if Beowulf
is
Woden's favourite, I have the support of old red beard.” He winked as he turned to go and threw a parting comment. “Who else but Thunor could send a storm to drive my kinsman from the gods know where in my moment of greatest need.” He laughed as he recalled the events of the previous day. “A tiny ship emerges from a wall as black as jet, and a girl and three bowmen drive off the fiend and rescue us from being driven ashore.” Heardred fixed the eorle with a steady look. “If that's not the work of the thunderer, I don't know what is.”

EIGHT

A whoop of joy cut the air, and the group laughed as the lad put spur to horse and cantered across the neck of land. One by one his friends followed suit, and Eofer exchanged an almost paternal look of amusement with the men of his duguth.

They had arrived back at the great promontory which the English called Strand the previous evening. Peeling off from the Geatish fleet as they passed the welcome sight of Hwælness, Eofer had edged into the treacherous bay of the Husem. As the wind had risen to whip the shallows into froth, Eofer had kept the withies hard against his steerbord side as he ran the scegth through the maze of channels and creeks, running the
Fælcen
ashore as a pale, lowering Sun, threw long shadows to the East.

The ships of the returning fleet had dribbled home in ones and twos over the course of the previous day. Battered by the storm the snaca and their crews had all but given up the little warship for lost, and Eofer and his crew had basked in the joyful acclamation of their countrymen as they swept through the anchorage.

Thrush Hemming tapped the barrel and passed around the cups as they rode. Charging each in turn, they waited until the horses set foot on the mainland and their eorle made the cry.

“
Wæs Hæl!
”

The duguth raised their cups and thundered out the reply.

“
Drinc Hæl!
”

The men laughed and drained their cups, tossing them aside as Hemming passed the barrel around. It was a tradition among them that they greet their land with the pledge on their return. This year it was heartfelt. They had had the ear of the gods at the spring sacrifice and all of the troop had returned to the motherland as the world turned slowly from green to russet and the harvest was stacked, despite the best efforts of the Jutes and Britons to whittle their number.

Salt marsh fringed the dune speckled shoreline, and the men exchanged a look as a flight of cranes, the grey mass of adults punctuated by the yellowish brown of that summer's brood, passed over the windblown acres of needlemarsh and cordgrass. Soon the birds would leave for the South as men hunkered down to see out the dark days of winter and made their plans for the spring.

Lines of smoke curled from the roofs of Husem to be snatched away by the autumn blow. The town which bore the name of the great bay nestled in the middle distance, whitewashed walls and darker thatch clustered behind its rickety jetties and boathouses, but their destination lay further inland.

Sheep gave way to cattle and the first villages appeared as the land rose slowly towards the distant solidity of the Wolds, now a darker smudge on the skyline.

A small knoll stood hard on to the roadway, its rough grasses sawing as the wind began to freshen, and Eofer edged his mount aside and walked it to the crest. Clouds the colour of lead were gathering in the West as the next storm front approached, and the eorle took in the vista as the world slowly turned grey.

“Are we going to push on or wait this out, lord? We could be cosy inside Eappa's hall before she hits.”

Eofer glanced across at Hemming who had appeared at his side and grinned. Tall and powerfully built, his weorthman instinctively returned the smile and raised his brow as he awaited his lord's decision.

The eorle turned the head of his mount back to the waiting group, casting a final look at the waters of the Husem as the horse picked its way down from the rise. The surface was growing darker by the moment as the clouds rushed in to extinguish the sun, the boats outside the town frantic at their moorings. He called across to the others. “We will eat now while it is dry and then push on.” He shrugged. “It is only a little rain. How bad can it be?”

*

Ubba finally gave up on using his fingernail and plucked a straw from the roof thatch. Working it between his teeth he smiled in triumph as he finally worried the strand of pork free. Across the hall a woman's cry was cut short as one of the men backhanded her and frogmarched her across to the table. As the raider splayed her legs with a kick, his jarl watched absent-mindedly as he hoist her skirts and began to tug at his belt.

A crash came from the bower, and Ubba smiled again as he recognised the familiar sound made by silver falling on wooden boards. Haldor poked his head around the doorway and grinned. “Found it!”

Free now of his tormentor, Ubba took another bite of the pork leg. “You would think that at least one woman would hide her treasure somewhere other than the roof of her bedchamber.”

Haldor snorted and disappeared back into the shadows. The Dane took a last look around the hall and ducked back outside. The wind had continued to grow in strength as they had ransacked the place. Skeletal shadows swept this way and that against a sky the colour of iron as each gust shook the treetops. Darkness was almost upon them, and Ubba rested his back against the barn as he reflected with satisfaction on the course of his latest foray.

Rounding Fyn, the great island which the English called Harrow, his ship had taken the fjord up to the Jutish town known as The Crossing. Arrangements had been set in place there with the local jarl, like most in those parts no friend of the English, to exchange the chest of silver lashed securely amidships for horses and supplies. The remaining crew would double back and proscribe a great sweep, back around Daneland, meeting up with their jarl at the next full moon near the remains of a hall which they had burned the previous year, a few miles to the east of the English settlement of Suthworthig. That would give them a full two weeks to burn and plunder the length of Engeln, time enough to humiliate King Eomær and bring honour and renown to his own king, Hrothgar. The corners of the jarl's mouth turned up in a smile as he thought of the reputation which the attack would bring him among his peers. The rafters of Heorot would think that the Grendel had returned from the mere to shake their joints once again, as Ubba's Raid was acclaimed and toasted from the mead benches.

Haldor reappeared and walked across to his jarl as the men packed the silver into the panniers which flanked the remounts. He glanced up at the sky as he came and frowned. “Are we staying here tonight lord? This looks like it's getting worse; not the sort of night to be caught in the open.”

Ubba raised his eyes and squinted away to the West. The sun was down, but the full darkness of the night was still some way off. Haldor was right, it was a good hall. If it had been a little further from the road it would have been the perfect hideaway but it stood hard on, and there was no telling who might arrive in the dark hours. The English were hunting them now and, stung by the audacity of their raid, he doubted that they would rest night or day while they remained at large. He shook his head. “No, we will follow the valley down to that hall we saw beyond the watercourse. It's just that bit further from the road and we will be able to see any riders approach from a good distance away.”

Disappointed, Haldor glanced up as a powerful gust brought a shoal of leaves sweeping across the paddock. “I doubt that there will be any war-bands out in this, lord.” He grabbed at his groin and leered. “This one is pretty. Even the maidservant is worthy of a tup.”

Ubba shook his head as he confirmed his decision. “No, we move,” he snapped. “Tell the men to kill the bitches and come outside.” The Dane swung himself up into the saddle and hauled at his reins, guiding his mount back towards the nearby track as he threw a last instruction over his shoulder. “Haldor…”

The warrior paused and turned. “Yes, lord?”

“Tell the men to fetch brands from the hearth to light the way, but don't fire the hall. We don't want to find an English shield wall barring our path in the morning.”

*

The riders swept along the track as the wind roared through the canopy overhead sending a blizzard of leaves, twigs and smaller branches cascading all around. They pushed on, the spectral light from the brands which each man held aloft marking their progress through the absolute darkness which surrounded them.

Eofer snatched at his reins and guided his mount around another fallen bough as he reflected on the homecoming which Thunor had provided for them. It was, after all, about as bad as it could be, and he gave a grim smile as he thought of the thunder god. Perhaps he had been listening when he made his comment to Thrush back at the knoll or maybe he was too far away, shepherding Heardred safely home. His sacred grove was not far from Eofer's own hall, he would leave an offering if they all made it safely through.

The roadway spilled out into a glade and the eorle came to a halt and waited for the others to come up. High above the moon reappeared to bathe the clearing in its watery light before the next storm cloud
,
its edges rimmed with silver, moved across to veil it once more. Brands hissed and snaked as the rain and wind found them, and Eofer let out a laugh as he saw the excitement writ large on their faces. Soon they were a mob of horsemen, their mounts kicking up muddy clods as they circled, and Eofer cried out above the wind as he did a quick headcount.

“This must be what it is like to ride the wild hunt with the Allfather.” He shot his weorthman a grin. “Still wish you were cosy, Thrush?”

A line split Hemming's beard as he beamed in return, his eyes wide with the joy of the moment as he shook his head and the war-band jeered. It was little wonder that Woden chose to ride on nights like this, and Eofer yelled again as a powerful gust carried a heavy crack to their ears from the darkness beyond the circle of light.

“If it gets much worse we will break our journey at Penda's hall.” A quick glance at the moon told the eorle that the night was already well advanced, he doubted that they would reach home before daybreak and he recognised that it was the sensible thing to do. They had been away as soon as the spring rites had been performed at Eostre
,
another morning would make little difference. Besides, he reflected with a smile, his father's weorthman
always kept a supply of mead for guests and it
had
been a long ride. Somewhere in the dark an almighty crash told them that a great tree had succumbed to the blow. Eofer cursed. If large trees were beginning to topple they would need to slow their pace even more. The
ride
had
become much worse, Penda's hall really was the sensible choice. He grinned again at the childlike excitement on the faces which ringed their lord. “All set?”

Torches were thrust into the air and, as the gale reached down to pluck at the flames, the troop filed behind their leader with a throaty roar and spurred their mounts.

*

Brecc tapped gently on the door to the bower and flicked up the wooden latch. Entering softly, he paused for a heartbeat to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. To his disappointment the boy was sleeping beside his mother, he may need to quieten him if he awoke. Crossing to the settle, he bent over the sleeping figures and hesitated, unsure how to wake his owner. Realising that physical contact was improper, he took hold of the coverlet and gave it a sharp tug. As the woman stirred he moved back into the pale rectangle of light cast by the doorway to enable her to recognise him for who he was. She saw him and came instantly awake. “Brecc? What is it?”

The
thræl
moved forward and, dropping to his knee, lowered his gaze in supplication. “There are lights moving through the Weald lady. Horsemen are on the road, they must be past the brook by now.”

She nodded that she understood. The wind outside was roaring, buffeting the stout walls of the hall with every gust. Only the mad or those intent on harm would be foolish enough to venture out on such a night. Spear-Danes had been raiding on Harrow all summer and there had been rumours that, emboldened by their successes, they had begun to turn their attentions to the settlements on the mainland itself. Her own brother-in-law had fallen on one such raid, and she steeled herself as she prepared to exact some small measure of revenge before she too fell. The boy awoke and rubbed his eyes. “What is it mother?”

She reached inside her night clothes and freed a key from the ring which hung there. “Go to the coffer and bring two
gar,
quickly now.”

She hesitated and looked back at Brecc. Slaves were forbidden to touch weapons but he looked like a man who had known spear-play in the past. He had been faultlessly loyal all summer, she would take a chance. “Weohstan…” The lad turned his head as he fumbled with the lock. “Fetch three spears.”

Astrid looked back at her thræl and saw the gratitude on his face. There was no malice in his expression and she relaxed slightly; she knew that she had not misjudged the man. Weohstan hurried back, the bare soles of his feet slapping on the cold wooden boards. Cradling three of the heavy thrusting spears he handed them around. Taking down two shields from the wall to the rear of the bed she handed one to Brecc as she heft her own.

“Weohstan, fetch your shield.” A knot of emotion gripped her chest and she smiled at the look of pride which illuminated his round face. The blond hair which framed his features were a legacy from her kin but the steely gaze belonged to his father. She set her face and gripped her gar. “Tonight we must all be men.”

Astrid led them out, past the high table, and down the length of the hall. The benches, the scene of so much merriment and laughter when the men were home, hugged the bare walls. Bereft of their shields and weapons, the bare plaster and posts looked skeletal in the flickering light from the hearth; a body without a soul.

Reaching the door she paused and turned. Her
thyften
had accompanied her from her father's hall in Geatland on her marriage, and the old maid hung back in the shadows with a face as pale as the moon. Astrid smiled reassuringly and indicated the door to her bower with a flick of her head. “Editha, if this is a hall burning make your way to Ealdorman Wonred's hall and tell him what has happened here. He will protect you until the master returns.” The handmaid made to protest but Astrid cut her short. “It is not the duty of women to fight,” she pulled a wry smile, “unless you are the daughter of a king.” She smiled again, more warmly this time as the memories of their years together flooded back. The old girl had wet nursed her through her first year and attended her through the highs and lows of her life. If her wyrd was to die here, there was no reason why they should die together. As the thyften bustled off, Astrid's expression hardened once again and she turned to her son. “Weohstan…” The boy looked up, his expression resolute. “You will lead us and make the challenge.” His face softened in gratitude for a heartbeat, before the iron will which she knew so well reasserted itself. “Remember the words which your father taught you. You are the son of an eorle, the grandson of a battle king.”