Fire & Steel (2 page)

ONE

Gwened,

Bro Gwereg,

Summer AD523

Eofer crossed his legs before him and wriggled his shoulders further into the coils of rope, sighing with pleasure at the warmth of the sun on his face. Closing his eyes against the glare, he felt the corners of his mouth curling into a smile as Osbeorn paced the deck like an expectant father.

“Where is he? How long can it take?”

Eofer chuckled to himself as he pictured the dockside in his mind. Squat buildings of dark grey stone backed a landing made of the same grim material, the whole liberally scattered with nets and woven pots, the everyday tools of the fishermen who had made the port their home. In the middle distance the walls and massive towers of the fortress which the Romans had called Benetis jutted above the tree line, and Eofer imagined the dark stones glowering over the town which had grown up in its shadow. At the far end of the quay a large trader rode the flood tide, the portly lines and workaday air at odds with the sleek warships which had journeyed down from the North.

They had wend their way through the maze of islands and shoals the previous day to reach this place, following the withies which marked the channel to the anchorage where a small river emptied into the bay. The port reeve had immediately despatched a rider to hurry the few miles to this town of Gwened to report their arrival, unbelievers being unwelcome in the Christian settlement. Within the hour he had returned with the news that the British lord and his men would sail with them on the morning tide and the English war-band had settled in for a night of freshly cooked food and dark Welsh ale.

The land which bordered the bay was already a swatch of green despite the earliness of the year, lush with beech, oak and birch. Overhead the skies echoed to the trill of swallows, the red throated birds darting and slashing as they fed on the wing. Their pearl-like bellies would not be seen in the skies above the northern homelands for another month and the English wondered at their appearance. It was the first time that any of them had driven their ships so far south. The Romans had called the land Armorica but, as in the north, people were on the move. Britons in their thousands had left the shores of Britannia to settle here, transplanting the names of their homeland, Cornouaille, Domnonia, until men began to call the whole peninsula Bro Gwereg, the land of Gwereg. Now one wished to return and he was willing to pay good silver to do so.

Osbeorn cupped his hands as the boy reappeared, and his voice boomed across the anchorage. “Come on Oswin, they will be here soon!”

Eofer abandoned his reverie and reluctantly opened his eyes. Glancing across to the dockside he watched as the boy struggled along with the wicker basket. Almost as large as the youth himself, the wickerwork completely obscured the boy's view ahead, and the thegn called across to Porta to go to the aid of his fellow as a vision of their breakfast ending up back in the water came to his mind.

The lad scurried off and soon they were tucking into a meal of hot sardines and fresh white bread. They had arrived back not a moment too soon, as the sound of hoofbeats carried across from the roadway which led inland. Warriors were arriving there and, dismounting, they formed in twin ranks as a knot of riders in gleaming mail emerged from the shadows.

Hemming rolled a ball of phlegm around the roof of his mouth with his tongue and sent it spinning over the side. “Here's our man.”

Eofer gripped the gunwale and hauled himself to his feet, brushing the dust from the seat of his trews as heads turned towards the dockside and the troops there stabbed the sky with their spears, roaring their acclaim. “Good, let's get going,” he murmured. “I don't like sailing in another man's ship, even if that man is my father.”

Above the spear points, the golden draco battle flag of the house of Uther shone as it broke free of the enclosing buildings and the sea breeze teased it out. The men of the flotilla exchanged smiles as they compared it to their own standards. The white dragon war flag of the English curled from each masthead in the little group; the men were happy at the coincidence, it was a good omen.

A quick glance up at the weather vane, high up in the mast top, confirmed that the wind still blew steadily from the South. Sæward began to organise the crew as the British warriors funnelled down to the mole and began to follow their lord onto the nearest ship.

Hemming turned back to Eofer and spoke again as the big ship master ordered the spar run up the mast and oars were fitted to tholepins. “What do you know about these Britons, lord?”

Eofer pulled a face, “Cerdic and Cynric?” He shrugged and shot his duguth a grin. “They pay well!”

They shared a laugh as the British warriors hopped from ship to ship, filling each in turn as the crews prepared to cast off. Eofer continued as the first of the dark haired warriors began to fill the hull of the
Sæ Wulf.
“Cerdic and Cynric, father and son. Cerdic strongarm is the son of the old champion of the Belgae, Elesius, who in turn was the son of one of the warlord Arthur's close companions, Osla big knife.”

Hemming looked at him quizzically. “Osla? Unusual name for a Briton.”

Eofer snorted. “That's because he wasn't.” He raised a brow as he repeated the nickname. “Big knife?”

Hemming's expression softened and he nodded that he understood. “Big knife, a Seax. So he was a Saxon then?”

Eofer nodded. Although the short, stabbing, seax was a common weapon among the armies in the North, the sword length bent-backed blade was more characteristic of the warriors who belonged to the Saxon tribes. “When Arthur died Cerdic's faction lost the power struggle and he had to flee abroad with his son. Now that he has had time to rebuild his strength he has hired us to carry his army across the sea and add a touch of steel to his homecoming.” The English thegn lowered his voice as the British leader leapt the final obstacle and landed amidships. “Let's hope that he has not underestimated the level of support waiting for him at home. Three keels is hardly what you would call an invasion fleet!”

Eofer watched as Sæward took the draco from Cerdic's banner man and threaded it to a halyard. Within moments the golden dragon was rising to the mast top in a series of short, jerky movements. Cerdic's men let out a cheer as the golden dragon took the wind and pointed its tail to the North. Eofer painted his features with a smile and went to greet his paymaster as the last of his warriors tumbled down into the hull.

“Welcome aboard the
Sæ Wulf
, lord,” he said. “I am Eofer king's bane. Are you set?”

The Briton returned his smile and Eofer felt the charisma of the man wash over him. A head taller than the men of his guard though less stocky in build, the lighter skin tone and flaxen hair of the British leader served to reinforce the fact that his ancestry lay further north and west of the land he now called home.

The Briton ran his eyes over the Englishman and nodded, obviously satisfied with his choice. “As set as I will ever be, Eofer,” he answered. Cerdic glanced up at the draco as it stretched out to the North, before returning his gaze. “It seems that my banner is as impatient to be home as I am.” He turned and called his companion forward and Eofer recognised the younger man for who he was before the introduction. “This is Cynric,” Cerdic beamed proudly, “my son.”

Cynric came forward and Eofer was pleased to see that the boy had inherited his father's easy manner as well as his physical features as he welcomed him aboard. Cynric flashed him a smile in return. “King's bane,” he said. “We were introduced by a travelling bard to the tale of the fight in Swede Land in which you earned your name. We are pleased to have your sword with us on our little adventure.”

As Eofer inclined his head in thanks, Cerdic indicated Sæward with a jerk of his head. “Your senior helmsman?” Eofer called his duguth across and the magister nodded to a thick set man who had hovered to one side as they spoke. “This is Anwyl, my own ship master.” The sailor ducked his head in acknowledgement as his master continued. “I hope that you don't mind, but I would like him to guide you through my home waters. No man knows them as well as he, and if we let the tides sweep us into the waters we call the Soluente we could be in big trouble.” He smiled again. “The tides and currents are treacherous there and I would feel rather foolish stranded on a sandbank as my enemies came to finish me off!”

As Sæward led Anwyl aft, the last of the British warriors came aboard. Eofer and Cerdic exchanged a look as they settled themselves into the area which had been prepared for them. “That's it,” Cerdic smiled as the last of his men stacked their shields and spears amidships. “I am keen to be away while this wind holds. If you leave now we should exit the bay before the tide turns.”

Bassa and Beornwulf, the youth who formed the permanent crew on Eofer's own ship,
Fælcen,
were within earshot and a quick nod from their eorle sent them scurrying ashore to release the bowline from the mooring post there. The action was mirrored on the other two English ships as the crews came alive and moved to their stations. As the boys leapt back aboard and the ships moved away from the land, the crews waited patiently until there was enough sea room to slip the oars into tholepins. Sæward caught his eye as the ships slid apart and Eofer nodded. Filling his lungs with the cool morning air the ship master cried out time as the rowers curled their backs and the oars swept the surface. Slowly the
Sæ Wulf
gathered way as the men settled into their rhythm and the other ships took station to either side.

Eofer cast a look back at the shore as the vessel gathered speed. A cloud of gulls dipped in their wake as the ships pulled clear of the land, the dark headed birds searching out the fish guts and smaller fry which they associated with men and ships. On land the white line of grins split the faces of several fishermen as one of their number chased a shrieking woman around a pile of woven fish traps. It was not quite the rapturous send off he had imagined that Cerdic strongarm, the saviour of Belgic Britain would have had, but then the Welsh were Christians and it did sometimes seem that the religion frowned upon unnecessary displays of emotion. Eofer's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt as he contemplated the summer ahead. One way or another, he doubted that the blade would sleep in its scabbard until the harvest was gathered safely in.

The waves slapped noisily against the hulls of the ships as they wallowed in the swell, and the last of the ropes which bound them together were lashed down. Low to the South the moon was full, and ships and sea alike were bathed in a silver sheen. As the temperature began to tumble and the men huddled into their cloaks and waited for their food, Cerdic made his way aft. Eofer had watched the British magister as the ships had cut their way north across a sea as green as any meadow. Alone among his men, the man had barely cast a look towards the ragged coast of Bro Gwereg as it slipped astern, the ramparts of dark rock which turned their face to the sea seemingly holding little attachment to his affections. To a man the Britons had cut their hair short, immediately marking them apart from the Englishmen who surrounded them. Although their garments were of the best quality they were noticeably less flamboyant than those of their hosts, the muted browns, greens and blues brightened only by the red cloak which hung at every man's shoulder and the enamelled broach which held it in place. Their leader was dressed in similar fashion to his men, and Cerdic flashed Eofer a smile as he gained the steering platform and hopped up at his side.

“We are making good progress,” he said. “This time tomorrow we shall be ashore?”

It was more a question than a statement of fact, and Cerdic glanced towards Anwyl seeking confirmation. His ship master nodded in agreement. “If this wind blows steadily we should drift down on Afen mouth around dusk, lord,” the man replied.

“Let us hope that the Durotrige and our new Jutish friends are safely at their ale before we appear then.”

Cerdic noticed the look of surprise which flashed across Eofer's face at the remark and the magister moved to allay his concerns. “The Durotrige live to the west of my own people, the Belgae.” He paused and smiled again. “The Jutes I think are more familiar to you than they are to me, it's one of the reasons which led me to recruit Engles for this journey. Perhaps we can share what knowledge we possess of our common foe?” Thrush Hemming, Eofer's
weorthman
, his leading warrior, approached them with platters of bread and cheese. Handing one each to the British leader and his own eorle he dipped his head before returning to his companions. It had been a long day, and both men tore hungrily at the bread as Cerdic continued between mouthfuls. “As I mentioned this morning, I already know something of the exploits of Eofer king's bane and his war-band. Even in these troubled times, campaigns and battles which claim the lives of two kings are rare events.” Cerdic glanced across as he broke the corner from a heel of cheese. “Did they die well?”

Eofer shrugged. “Ongentheow, the king of Swedes died the death of a hero. My kinsman Hythcyn, the Geat usurper, failed to attain those heights.”

The British leader nodded, thoughtfully. “How we face death is important, it is the final capitulum in our life story.” The eorle gave him a blank look and Cerdic looked surprised. “Capitulum, it's a Roman term for the division of a book?” Eofer continued to stare at the Briton who finally realised his error. “I am sorry,” he said awkwardly, “I assumed that you would know the Latin tongue. I know that many æthelings do.”

Eofer pursed his lips. “Knowledge considered appropriate for our princes is not necessarily imparted to the sons of ealdormen.”

Cerdic grimaced. “It was stupid of me,” he said. “Please accept my heartfelt apologies.” He rallied with a smile. “Let's make sure that our own final capitulum lies many years in the future. Tell me,” he added, “since I clearly know only enough of the customs of the North to enable me to offend good men. What do you know of myself and the situation in my part of Britannia?”