Fire & Steel (27 page)

As the new English shield wall formed at the head of the field with a clash of lime on lime, the Jutes clustered protectively about their king and hurried forward to throw their own line across the narrowest part of the clearing.

Before they were set in their defences, an English champion strode free of the host and shook his spear at the enemy. The sun chose that moment to break free of the clouds, bathing the warrior in its glow as Eofer looked on in admiration. As the silvered plates of the man's helm shone in the light, the figure of a boar, a ruddy flash of bristles sprouting from its back like a hedge of spears, stood out boldly above. Thrown over a shirt of mail, a heavy cloak of bearskin lay on the warrior's shoulders, the gold and garnet pin which fastened it sparkling like a dagger against the tawny pelt. As the Jutes shuffled into line the hero beat his chest, raising his spear and shield as the haunting cry of his challenge washed across his fiend.

As the hail bled away, the English line moved forward, throwing their own shields before them as they began to call the barritus, the war challenge of the northern folk. Like the distant roll of thunder which heralded a summer storm, the cry slowly rose with each step taken until, reflected and amplified by the wall of shields raised before them, the war cry boomed across the field.

Unnsh…aaah…ooosh!

The Jutes set up their own cry in response, but their numbers were fewer and, although their hearts were trim, a half day of battle play had sapped at their strength. Faced now with a new foe confident in their arms and numbers, the Jutish reply petered out as the English bear-man stalked the ground before them, calling and pointing out to individuals in their ranks in challenge.

Eofer's eyes widened, the battle thrill coursing his veins again as the ætheling's champion spun and danced, throwing his head back with a growl as he called on the Allfather to send the bear spirit which would render him invincible. As other eorles came forward, wolf-men and boar-men, to spin and dance, Eofer was thrilled to hear the barritus echoed by those to his rear. Despite the trials of the day his own men, be they hearth warrior or fyrdman, ceorl, farmer, bowyer, woodsman, all gripped their spears tightly and prepared to go again.

The English battle line moved forward once again and, as the barritus trailed away, the massed ranks beat spear shaft on shield and thundered out the age-old chant.

Ut!...Ut!...Ut!

As the cry was taken up by the men at the bridge, Eofer noticed the shadowy shapes of riders moving among the woods which flanked the clearing. Wulf noticed the look of concern which swept across his brother's face and leaned close as the pre battle noises roared around them like an autumn gale. “Have no fear brother, the horsemen are ours. King Eomær wants a ghost army,” he explained as he indicated the Jutes with a flick of his head. “The only choice they have, is whether they try to earn a place at the benches of Valhall today or live awhile longer and go to await the end of days in Hel's chill hall.”

Eofer raised his brow in surprise. The songs told of the last time that a ghost army had been arrayed to watch over the border lands along the River Egedore, in the time of King Offa. It was powerful spell-work, and the eorle found that he was thrilled and unnerved in equal measure that he would get to witness such a thing in his own time.

At the head of the field the war horn sounded its note a last time and the flags of the English dipped in response. A heartbeat later a roar split the air as the massed ranks surged forward and cascaded down the slope.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ena placed the pitchers of ale on the table with a clack and threw them a smile. “Pickled eggs, boys? They are nice and fresh.”

The group turned and looked at Osbeorn to a man, their expressions bright with anticipation. He looked up and grimaced.

“No, not for me thanks, Ena,” he answered. “I don't think that my arse would thank me.”

The ale wyf narrowed her eyes and pulled a face, before deciding that she didn't really want to discover the answer to the question which was forming in her mind. The momentary image which had appeared there had been more than enough. “Suit yourself,” she said after a pause, “although I tend to find that most people prefer to eat them. Mind you,” she added, glancing across the packed room with a look of disdain, “you can always go and join them if you like
that
sort of thing.”

As the men of Eofer's troop laughed into their ale they looked across to the source of Ena's ire. A group of warriors had formed a circle, arms entwined as they belted out another verse. The accent placed their origin in the south of the country and Eofer called across to his newest youth as the song rolled around the room. “Grimwulf, you are from their part of Engeln. What are they singing about?”

The youth was chuckling at his countrymen's antics and he replied with a sidelong glance at Spearhafoc. “It's an old favourite of the men who work the River Egedore, lord,” he cried above the din. “It's about a woodsman who keeps putting his finger in a woodpecker's hole. It can go on for quite some time,” he said with a smirk.

Ena shook her head and sighed. “Mercians, bloody southerners. No wonder they are kept down on the border, away from decent folk.” She threw a parting comment over her shoulder as she forced her way through the throng. “There's too much Saxon in them if you ask me.”

They laughed again, but Eofer quietened as the sound washed around him and he decided that the time was right. They had been at their cups since early afternoon as they celebrated both the victorious campaign in Juteland and their own part in it. The marches had been put to fire and sword, their army destroyed. King Osea himself was held captive in Eorthdraca, not half a mile from where he sat. The fleet had harried the ports and towns all along the western coast and his own family were safely away. His father's ship master had returned with the news that he had escorted the
Skua
to within sight of the Geatish coast. A guard ship had set out from Marstrand at their approach and the English snaca had dipped its flag in recognition and bore away. Great events were afoot and the Geats would be anxious for news, but they would have to await events. Sailor’s mouths flapped like sails in a gale and the stakes were just too high for English plans to leak out, even unwittingly from the mouths of friends. No, he knew. With Astrid and Weohstan safe under the protection of her brother, King Heardred, he could concentrate on the war which would start within days.

As the laughter died away, Eofer rapped the tabletop with his knuckles and waited for quiet. They hushed immediately and turned their eyes to their lord. As another roar of laughter carried across from the fireside, he ran his eyes across the men of his own hearth troop and began.

“We have won a great victory, but the war has just begun. Soon we will move to smite our greatest fiend, Hrothgar's Spear-Danes. They have already discovered that to attack the English is to invite fire and steel into your own land.” The warriors nodded earnestly as they thought back on the sight of Heorot in flames on its high mound, the hall guard slain or fleeing before their swords. Eofer lowered his voice. “We have already lost friends and we shall lose more before this thing is done.” He swept them with his gaze and they firmed their jawline, resolute. “Fill your cups now and drink to our friends in Valhall, for they will be in no other place. Recall their faces as I say their names and honour their memory.”

As an eorle and a man of reputation, Ena had served his drink in a horn and he raised it now as he began.

“Æsc,
wæs hæl!
”

The men of the troop brought their cups together and thundered the reply.

“Æsc,
drinc hæl!
”

“Oswin silk-tongue,
wæs hæl!
”

“Oswin silk-tongue,
drinc hæl!
”

The noise trailed away and Eofer paused as he refilled his horn. As he glanced up he saw for the first time that the men who had crowded the ale hus had quietened and turned his way, charging their own cups as they awaited the name to come. The tale of Imma's death on the field beside The Crossing had swept the English army as they had driven their captives back across the border into Engeln. All knew that the duguth had had ample time to escape the treacherous assault by Jarl Heorogar and his men but had chosen to stay and die with the honour which his opponents had lacked. His sacrifice had restored the will to resist in a flagging English defence and allowed Grimwulf the chance to escape and link up with the ætheling's army, bringing swift retribution down on the Jutish king and sealing his fate.

Eofer choked back a knot of emotion as he raised the horn and a calm descended on the room as the action was mirrored by scores of hands.

“Imma Gold...Goldy,” he cried as he fought to keep a tremor from his voice. “Breaker of shield walls and women's hearts. My friend.
Wæs hæl!
”

Tight smiles came as he said the words, and the men attempted to lift the roof from its rafters as they belted out the reply.

“Imma Gold,
drinc hæl!
”

Eofer threw back his head and drained the horn as the men in the room stamped out a beat on the floor with their boots and chanted the English war cry.

“Ut!...Ut!...Ut!...”

Wiping his beard on his sleeve, the eorle began to feel overcome by the emotion of the moment. Swinging his legs from the ale bench he hauled himself to his feet and made his excuses. “I am going to get some air,” he said. Slipping the purse from his belt he caught Ena's eye and tossed it across. “I pay for the ale and food under this roof tonight. Give the men anything they want.”

As a deafening cheer rent the air, Hemming rose and followed his lord through the sea of smiling faces and out into the dusk. They paused on the road outside and hungrily sucked in the cool air, their minds clearing slowly as the heady fog of ale fumes and men left them.

Eofer indicated the great hog-backed silhouette of Eorthdraca glowering over the town with a jerk of his head. “Come on Thrush,” he said. “Let's take a walk.”

Hemming had picked up a gallon of ale as he moved through the Barley Mow and they took turns to gulp from the tap as they walked. The air was crisp, but it had already lost the savage bite of the northern winter and the first green shoots had appeared in the hedgerows and swards around Sleyswic. The guards at the gate smiled in welcome as they came up, their smiles broadening as Hemming passed the barrel around and shared a joke. Eofer walked through as the men wished each other good cheer, pausing before the Jutish captives as he contemplated their fate. Corralled in a vast open pen, their wyrd, he knew was upon them. Their fate was grim, and to his surprise he found that he pitied the men who had tried so hard to kill them all on the meadow beside the wreck of Wictgils' hall.

Hemming came through the gateway and Eofer called across. “Here, Thrush. Toss me the ale.” A guard sensed what he was about to do and he took half a pace forwards before he realised the identity of the man who had appeared from the gloom. As the sentinel turned and walked slowly away, Eofer called the nearest Jute to him. “Here,” he said, “share this with your friends.”

The man unwound his arms and reached forward, hesitant, fearing a trick, but his eyes widened as he felt the weight of the thing. “Thank you, lord,” he said, “for your kindness.” Eofer shrugged and moved away. Another voice came from the gloom. “What's to become of us, lord?” He answered without breaking his stride as the sight of the hate filled faces that had cheered on the death of his friends came back to him. “Enjoy the ale,” he said before lowering his voice to a murmur, “it will be your last.”

Passing through the palisade they mounted the steps of King Eomær's hall and paused at the doorway. Hemming gave a soft chuckle and plucked at his lord's sleeve. “Come on Eofer,” he said with a smile, “we don't need to hear this one. We were there.”

Broad smiles illuminated the faces of the king's gesithas as they realised the identity of the man before them and one of the guards motioned towards the great doorway with his spear. “You should be inside, lord. The scop is the best that you will hear.”

Eofer nodded. “I know. I heard him tell this tale before, in the hall of another king.”

The pair paused for a moment as the words of the poet echoed around the hall and their minds drifted back to that fateful fight.

“Before he could move the lord of the Shylfings was upon him.

Geat and Engle alike marvelled that they could witness such a thing

as the old grey-hair, gory from his wound, fought back all the harder.

He did not withhold the blow. The wælcyrge could wait awhile yet!

The blade flashed down, a thunderbolt worthy of the red bearded one.

Wulf fell, his helm divided, blooded and gory, his head bowed.

But it was not his doom!”
The scop cried out as the hall cheered.

“For, seeing his brother down, his own kith and kin lying among the slain,

Eofer stepped up. He did not care for his life but thrust forward where the

fight was hardest.

Astride his brother one blood and one bone he stood, shielding him from

the death blow.

Ongentheow faltered and Eofer seized his chance.

Advancing furiously he brought blood-worm, that ancient blade,

slashing down, smashing murderously at the royal helm, cleaving it asunder.

There fell the king, at the head of his troop. No-man can say that the

shepherd of the shylfings turned from the strife and sought out the

wild-wood, looking to save his life.

Thaet waes god cyning!”

Two kings had fallen in battle that day and the man who had plucked the king helm of the Geats from the mud, the same man who had given him his wife, now too lay hacked into gore down in Frankland. Eofer walked away, voicing a lament as the poet carried on. “It's a pity that Oswin missed his chance to learn from the king's scop.”

A voice answered from the shadows and Eofer smiled as he recognised it at once.

“From what I hear of his death, Oswin is likely to be learning his craft from the word master himself in Valhall.”

“Maybe he is supping from the mead of poetry itself,” Hemming suggested as they walked across.

The three stood in silence for a moment as they looked out across the waters of the Sley. The moon had risen to paint the surface of the waters with its silver glow and Icel shook his head. “Such a sight,” he breathed. “That we should live at such a time!”

Below them the masts and hulls of the English fleet slid back into shadow as high torn clouds were driven across from the West.

“You know,” the ætheling said. “I heard that a man wagered that he could cross the Sley from bank to bank by leaping from one deck to another. That's how many ships have already answered the war-sword.”

Eofer looked at Icel in astonishment. “A man crossed from bank to bank without getting wet?”

Icel looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “No, don’t be daft! They managed to fish the fool out just before he went under for the final time, but that's not the point,” he said with a smile. “He thought that he could, even if his judgement may have been slightly impaired by the amount of ale he had supped.”

The three warriors shared a laugh as Icel passed around the cups. Points of light began to spark into life in the fields below Eorthdraca as the men of the army settled in for the night. Within a short time the land surrounding Sleyswic mirrored the star speckled sky above.

Icel moved between Eofer and Hemming as they drank in the sight and clapped a palm on each man's shoulder. “The army is set, the wind is in the West.”

A thunderclap of sound carried through from the great hall doors as warriors bellowed their war cries and beat the tables with their fists. Icel's eyes flashed in the night, and a chill ran down Eofer's spine as he thought he caught the savage glare of the wolf there.

“My father has risen to speak. Whet your blades and gather your men about you,” he growled. “We have Danes to hunt.”