Fire & Steel (11 page)

“You'll be wanting to cross to the Sley?”

Eofer fetched inside his cloak, and a smile of satisfaction slowly illuminated Eadmund's features as the war-sword emerged.

“At last, lord. The bastard Danes need to remember what English steel tastes like.” Eadmund moved closer and lowered his voice as though he was imparting a great secret as the men of Eofer's troop tumbled from the ship and shouldered her onto the slipway. “A war-band burned halls within the Wolds here, not a month ago.” He hawked and spat at the memory. “They tried to come here, down The Oxen Way, but the king himself led his own hearth troop against them and chased them south.” He paused and spat again as if the very idea was unthinkable. “Danes on The Oxen Way!”

Eofer looked across as his troop shouldered their belongings. “Can we make a start today? The king expects us to make haste.”

Eadmund grimaced. “A dart of a ship like yours we could have taken most of the way east by way of yonder brook.” He indicated a side channel with a nod of his head. “It'll be full of rushes and pondweed at the moment, they will need clearing, so she'll have to go overland like a fat bellied trader.” The porter's lips set in an apologetic line. “Even that is not as easy as it should be. If it were earlier in the year, lord, I could have had you on your way as soon as the ballast was out of your ship, but this time of year...” He tugged at his ear as he cast a look towards the lowering sun. “The men are spread all over and so are the oxen. We never usually see a ship between Hærfestmonth and Eostre.”

Eofer pulled a face. “I need to be with the king as soon as possible. My men are not above hauling their own ship. Do we really need oxen?”

The man nodded gravely. “Dangerous work, lord. I dare say that King Eomær would not thank me for using his warriors as beasts of burden.”

Eofer spun the tiny sword and looked expectantly at the porter.

Eadmund chuckled. “Spend the night in my hall, lord, while I gather the men and oxen. We will have your ship in its cradle and ready to move at first light. You shall come before the king by nightfall.”

Muttered comments passed between the workmen and a rumble of laughter ran along the line. Eofer and Thrush Hemming crossed the open space before Eadmund's hall and hailed the man. Casting a look across his shoulder as he emerged, the porter nodded in recognition before chivvying the men back to work.

“You will have to forgive them, we don't see many shield maidens here, lord,” he explained as he indicated the tree line with a jerk of his head, “mostly merchants and the like.”

The pair glanced across and snorted as they saw the cause of the men's amusement. A line of backs presented themselves, silvered arcs playing on the bracken before them. On the extreme right of the line a small figure squatted in her customary position.

“Spearhafoc used to just mix in among the boys when she pissed,” Hemming explained, “until a few of the lads started to become a bit careless with their aim. A few sharp twists from the girl soon put paid to that little game,” he added with a chuckle, “but you can never be too careful!”

The trio walked down to the
Fælcen
as Eadmund's men guided the team of oxen into position at the head of the ship and tightened their harnesses. The scegth nestled in a cradle made from tough English oak, ready for its overland journey. Thick layers of sheepskin padded out the spaces between the cradle and the hull of the ship, protecting and cushioning the finely worked strakes from damage as it was hauled down the eastern slope of the Wolds.

Other men were doubling a rope of horsehair, weft with whale skin to increase its strength, around the upright of the stern post. Walking the rope forward they began to run it through the heavy iron eyelets which lined the flanks of the beasts as Shining Mane pulled the sun clear of the horizon in a splash of pink.

The porter paused and pulled a pained expression. “I couldn't round up all the men I would have liked, lord. With all the raids and the like, quite a few have returned to their home villages for the winter. Safety in numbers, I guess, you can hardly blame them. I was wondering if I could use a few of your youths?”

Eofer nodded. “We'll all pitch in, Eadmund. I told you last night, none of us are above a little hard work. There are no friendly porters to help us when we are deep inside British lands.”

Eadmund shook his head. “I only need a few extra hands, lord. Most of the pulling will be done by the oxen and their drivers. There are a few areas where we need to use rollers where the portage crosses uneven ground and that needs the hands of men, willing or unwilling. No,” he added with a smile, “your youth will be more than enough. With your reduced numbers I will have enough horses in the corral for yourself and the men of your duguth to ride to Sleyswic. It will save you a day that way and, as you say, a war-sword demands haste.”

Eofer could sense the smile forming on Thrush Hemming's face as he realised that a day of toil and mud looked about to be replaced by a short ride and a day supping the king's ale. He nodded. “It's a good plan. I will leave my ship master, Sæward, to keep an eye on things. Saddle up the horses and we will leave straight away.”

Eadmund chuckled and looked across to the corral where his sons were busy saddling a group of horses. “Already being seen to, lord.”

The trio moved towards the prow and Eadmund ran his fingers along the carvings which decorated the sheer strake of the little warship as they walked. Freshly repainted back at Strand, red falcons soared and plummeted on a field of blue and Eofer watched the experienced porter's obvious approval with pride.

“She's a real beauty, lord,” he finally breathed, turning to flash a smile. “A bit better than we are used to seeing up here, coasters and the odd fat bellied
cnarr
. How far do you take her?”

“She'll sail anywhere,” Eofer answered proudly, “but we mostly spend our summers in Britannia. She barely draws half a foot of water, ideal for moving along the rivers, deep into the heart of the place.”

A heavy thunk told them that the youth had arrived and were loading their belongings back on board as the rising sun raked the clearing with its light. A cry came from the leading handler and Eadmund acknowledged him with a wave. “First light, lord,” he smiled. “We are ready, as promised.”

Eofer curbed his mount at the brow of the rise and gazed back at the valley floor. The men of his duguth, elated to a man to be spared the heavy work, beamed as they circled him on their own mounts. The spear blade shape of the
Fælcen
was edging forward as the ox team, already growing indistinct beneath a vaporous brume, dug in and huckled forward.

Beyond them, the Trene meandered away to become lost in the trees of the uplands which the English called the Wolds. Raising his gaze, the eorle looked out across the lowlands of the polder to the German Sea beyond. The rains had lifted there now and the wetlands sparkled like a jewel in the pale light of the early morning. A voice came at his shoulder.

“It's a beautiful land, lord,” Imma Gold said. “Worth fighting for.”

TEN

Osbeorn balled a fist and pushed it into his chest, lifting a cheek and forcing out a fart as the belch cut the air. “Two birds in a bush.” He sniffed and threw them a grin. “It must be your lucky day. The guard was right, this is good ale!”

Eofer shook his head in mock despair as the men of his duguth laughed into their cups.

“Good bread and cheese, too,” Osbeorn added as Imma refilled the cups from the pitcher, “pass it over.” He jerked his head towards a further bowl, “and the pickled onions.”

Thrush Hemming pushed the bowl through the ale slops and raised a sarcastic brow. “No pickled eggs this time, lord?”

Osbeorn belched and sniffed again. “Good idea, shove them across.”

They were sat in a hall given over to public drinking. Most of the larger settlements in Engeln had at least one such place which offered lodgings, food and ale to travellers who were without kinfolk in that place to provide shelter. Sleyswic, situated where the portage deposited its charges into the great waterway of the Sley and near the north-south route known as The Oxen Way had at least a score of these 'ale hus'. Judging by the number of men in the place, Eofer came to the conclusion that the ale hus' of Sleyswic numbered more than just travellers among their customers.

Arriving at the gates of the king's tun near the waterfront, the guards had politely but firmly told the eorle that the king was yet to rise and that nobody was to enter or leave the fortress until he appeared. It was little more than a distance of ten miles from the place where they had left the ship to the hall, and they had reached the town before the sun was a hand's breadth above the eastern horizon. Stabling the horses, the friendly guards had promised to report their arrival to the king's hall reeve and pointed them towards the squat building on the waterfront.

The Barley Mow seemed to be a popular call for the workers making their way to the nearby quayside. A stone-lined hearth had been constructed against one of the outside walls of the place and an armful of faggots were blazing away merrily taking the autumn chill off the air, the smog rising to collect among the rafters before drifting out through a smoke hole in the gable. Ena, the buxom ale wyf
,
bustled across to stoke the flames, and Eofer and his men laughed as the conversations tailed away as she bent low and swayed rhythmically in time with every poke. Osbeorn raised a cheek and squeezed out another. “By the way that she is moving that poker, she knows exactly what effect she is having here!” They all laughed at his observation as the woman straightened and moved back towards the kitchen at the rear. She threw them a look and wrinkled her nose as she passed by their table, and the group set their faces into masks of innocence as they pointed out the culprit. Osbeorn threw her a wink, “cracking eggs, Ena!” The men of the troop roared as Ena shook her head, muttering a good-natured curse on warriors in general as she favoured a regular with a smile.

Imma Gold sank another cup, pushed back his chair and whistled contentedly. “This is the only way to start the day,” he sighed. “Isn't life so much easier without the children.” They all smiled again as they imagined the youth sweating the ship across the portage. “They should be just about up with those horrible ridges we passed earlier.” He upended his empty cup with a crash. “More ale anyone?” Twisting on his stool he drew a breath to summon Ena but let it out in a long sigh of disappointment instead. “Sorry lads. My fault for tempting wyrd.”

Eofer followed his gaze across to the doorway. Framed in the rectangle of light, the guard from earlier was searching the tables of the gloomy room. Spotting them near the hearth he ducked inside and made his way across. He threw them an apologetic look. “Sorry to drag you away, lord. The king's up and about and your arrival has been reported to him. He will receive you right away.”

Eofer studied the king's tun as he approached at the head of his men. The outer defences consisted of a wide, steep sided ditch which funnelled traffic between the enclosing outer walls of the compound. The bottom twenty feet or so of these walls had been faced with irregular creamy coloured stone to counter the use of fire by any attackers. Above this, a palisade of smooth timber shielded the guards on the inner walkway from the elements and any hostile action. A robust timber gatehouse capped the portal, above which flew an enormous red flag adorned with the white dragon of the English. The full light of day was on the land now, revealing a sky of darkest cobalt. To the North the last of the storm clouds, shredded and torn by the anger of the wind, hurried away towards the waters of the Belt.

Folk were already arriving at the outer gate as traders and their customers queued patiently for admittance to the compound within. “You picked the wrong day to arrive, lord,” the guard explained as they walked. “Wodensdæg is market day in Sleyswic, people come from all over.”

The guards manning the gateway nodded them through and ushered the multitude to one side as Eofer and his men approached. Raised eyebrows and haughty looks followed them from the more patient queuers, but nothing was said as they passed beneath the shadow of the gatehouse and spilled out into the compound beyond. Up ahead, the burh of King Eomær perched upon its knoll. The inner defences, stone faced and palisaded, mirrored those of the larger compound which surrounded it with, silhouetted against the skyline, the massive timbered hall of the king. Shining in its lime washed splendour beneath a mantle of golden thatch, the hall dominated the town and the dark waters of the Sley beyond from behind its ring of brightly coloured war flags.

Despite the early hour dozens of stallholders had already set up, and the sellers of foods and ale were doing a roaring trade. A smith had erected a small forge, and the dark red flames had become a warm place to gather as folk met old friends and exchanged their news. An escaped piglet zigzagged, squealing through the crowd as it made a desperate bid to escape its fate. The warriors laughed at the comical efforts of the sausage maker and his assistant to overtake the beast before it could make the gate, and Eofer wondered at the absurdity of the crowd, yelling the pig on as they munched happily on one of its litter mates.

The track rose towards the gatehouse, and soon they were being nodded through. The warriors here, Eofer noticed, were older and generally larger than those in the outer compound. The quality of their mail and weapons marked the men as
gesithas
, the men of the king's personal hearth troop. Chosen from among the bravest and hardiest of the duguth, these were the king's close companions, the men who ate, drank and slept in his hall and formed his personal bodyguard in battle. Broad chested and full bearded to a man, the gesithas were not to be lightly crossed.

A gnarled old veteran detached himself from the shadow of the hall and made his way down to them as they reached the staircase. “Eofer king's bane, my name is Ælfhelm, I am the new reeve here. Welcome back to
Eorthdraca.”
The reeve indicated that they follow him towards the great double doors which led into the magnificent structure which was Earthdragon, the hall of the king, as they began to remove their weapons. “Did you bring your scegth?
Fælcen
is it?” Eofer nodded and shot the reeve a grin. “We left our youth manhandling her across the carrying place and rode here at first light.” Ælfhelm chuckled. “You'll have been spending some time in the Barley Mow then. Great tits that Ena, and a dab hand with the poker!” They all shared an easy laugh as they mounted the steps. “What happened to the old reeve, Æscwine?” Eofer asked. Ælfhelm smiled genially. “He is still here, you will meet him inside. He still has duties to perform but he finds it difficult to hear what is being said most of the time.” He shrugged and leaned across. “Between you and me he is as deaf as that post, but the king still accords him honour for the service which he has given to his family. He fought alongside King Eomær's grandfather you know, Offa the Great.”

The twin gilt doors of Eorthdraca loomed above them, and Eofer studied the designs as the reeve announced their arrival by crashing down on the wooden boards with the heel of his staff. Chased into their faces were momentous events in the making of the English nation. The bairn, Sceaf son of Woden, pitching up on the shore of the Beltic Sea to found the tribe. The warrior king, Wihtlæg, crushing Amleth and his Jutes. Offa's defeat of the Myrging champion at Monster Gate and his son, Engeltheow's war of conquest which followed. His own father had fought in the war as a youth and he had grown up listening, spellbound, as the warriors recalled the fighting.

The great doors were drawn inward, and the group composed themselves as their shadows cut the plane of light which appeared on the hall floor. Ælfhelm took a step inside the hall and Eofer and his men held their position at the threshold as the reeve's deep voice boomed into the void.

“Eofer Wonreding has answered the war-sword's call, lord.”

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloomy interior, Eofer noticed two warriors were stood, their crossed spears barring entrance to the party, just ahead of the reeve. Ælfhelm gave them a curt nod in response to an unseen signal and the men stood to one side as the retainer moved forward. Eofer followed and the familiar smell of the hall, wood smoke, ale, leather and men, engulfed him. It was a good smell, a homely smell, and Eofer and the men of his hearth troop took in the features of the king's hall as they paced the oaken boards of Eorthdraca in the reeve's wake. Twin columns marched ahead, their great girth cunningly chased as dragons and men fought duels which spiralled up to the great hammer beams of the roof above. Picked out in gold and red, the death struggles appeared to writhe and flail in the reflected light of the hearth which flamed between them. The eorle's eyes were drawn beyond the stout figure of Ælfhelm to the dais which stood at the head of the hall and the figure upon it. King Eomær sat on his gift stool, resplendent in a pool of light which lanced in from a side wind hole high in the eaves. The king was dressed in a knee length tunic and hose of purest white, cuffed and hemmed in gold, which gleamed like a star amid the deep shadows of early morning. Eofer, despite the solemnity of the occasion, stifled a snort as a piece of advice which his father had given him years ago popped into his consciousness like a bat in the night.
'If you want to impress Eofer, dress in the lightest colour clothing that you can. It shows that you don't have to scrabble about in muck and shit all day like other folk!'
The king's garb was completed by a cloak of deepest blue, edged gold, pinned at the shoulder by a delicately worked gold and garnet encrusted square headed brooch. King Eomær's ancestral battle sword,
Stedefæst
, hung at the king's side as twin spear men, gesithas dressed for war, flanked their lord. The pale light of the northern morning shone dully on the wall to the King's rear where the great war flag of the English hung proudly. His battle shield, its red leather facing studded with golden dragons, ravens and the eye of Woden stood to one side alongside the silvery gleam of the king's ringed byrnie and helm.

Ælfhelm drew to one side as the procession came within twenty paces of the king, and the hubbub which had greeted their arrival from the warrior lined benches stilled as Eofer and the men of his troop knelt and lowered their gaze. Eofer gripped the war-sword and held it forward to show that he had answered its call.

King Eomær spoke. “Welcome to Eorthdraca, Eofer king's bane. Approach me, speak with your king.”

Eofer rose and walked forward, and the king motioned that he remain on his feet with a smile. Closer now, Eofer was gratified to see that the trials of the kingdom over the past few years had not had any discernible effect on the appearance of his lord. Tall and stockily built, Eomær shared the handsome features of his clan. Square of jaw, a smattering of freckles lay upon a face which was more round than oval in shape, open and welcoming beneath a crop of hair the colour of summer hay.

The king took the war-sword and motioned to a retainer who hurried forward with two golden cups. “Drink with me, Eofer,” the king said, smiling again as he tapped Eofer's cup with a dull metallic chink. “Did you have a good journey?”

“Wet, lord,” he replied with a snort. “If it had rained much harder we could have sailed here across the Wolds and saved a day.”

The king laughed easily. “You have heard about the symbel?” Eofer said that he had and the king continued cryptically. “That is one of the reasons for it.” The king shook his head dismissively as he saw the eorle's incomprehension. “All will be revealed in good time. The symbel is to take place next week at the Winterfylleth, but before that there is a man who I would like you to meet. I will replace those nags that Eadmund loaned you at the Old Ford with a fine war horse and we will ride to meet him after we have eaten.”

The arrangements made the king wrinkled his nose, pulling a face as he glanced across to his steward. “Ælfhelm,” he pleaded. “Can you discover what that bloody smell is.”

The horses picked their way south, the sun, low in the sky, a blinding orb of white as it crept slowly along a ridge of darkened trees. “Perhaps we should have left earlier,” the king quipped as he lowered his eyes against the glare.

“Have we far to travel, lord?” Eofer said.

King Eomær shook his head. “Only a short distance. You will have to forgive the discomfort, but it will be worth your while.”

They had left Eorthdraca as soon as the horses had been saddled and made ready for the journey. King Eomær had donned his war gear as his gesithas had armed, and within the hour the party had joined The Oxen Way and turned south. Eofer, to his surprise and delight, had been asked to ride at the head of the column with the king and, despite the pride he felt, the eorle could not but help wondering who they were travelling to meet. The men of Eofer's hearth troop had been shown honour by being asked to ride immediately to the rear of the pair. It was an unusual display of trust and regard for the king to let an armed group come between himself and his gesithas, and Eofer had chuckled as he compared the looks of pride which shone from the faces of his war-band and contrasted them with the glum looks of the king's men, sensing their discomfort in every movement.