Fire & Steel (3 page)

Eofer dipped his head, acknowledging the British leader's apology, and cleared his throat to speak. “You are the grandson of Uther Pendragon's hearth warrior, Osla big knife, a Saxon, and the son of Arthur's duguth, Elesius.” It was Cerdic's turn to give a blank look and the men shared a laugh as the tables were turned. Eofer flushed, the haughtiness driven from him as he explained. “A duguth is an English term for a senior man in his lord's hearth troop, a doughty warrior. Younger warriors in the war-band are just known as youths until they have proven their worth and reached sixteen winters.”

Cerdic nodded with a twinkle in his eye, and Eofer felt himself warm to the Briton as he took up the tale. “When Arthur died the people split into two factions. Those of us who wished to work towards a future which included all the people in the island of Britannia, Saxon, Engle and Briton under one leader and one God lost the ensuing war against those who wished to return to the old ways, those which prevailed in the islands before the coming of Rome. Their leader is a man called Natan and they call themselves the combrogi, which just means the people in our tongue. They call everywhere by the old names,” he gave a chuckle, “and nobody knows where they are any longer. This Natan styles himself a chieftain in the old way, even the capitol of the civitas at Venta Belgarum is now known as Cair Guinntguic.” He gave a low sigh. “Order within the civitas is breaking down, it is coming under attack from all sides. The people are in despair and I have been recalled from Bro Gwereg to lead the fightback. Already my supporters have stopped calling the great hill fort at Sorbiodunum, Cair Caradog, and driven away Natan's supporters there.”

Eofer looked up and nodded his thanks as Hemming handed the pair cups of ale. As Cerdic drank he cut in. “So we are to get you and your men through to the army in Sorbiodunum?”

Cerdic winced. “Essentially yes, but there is a complication.”

Eofer tried hard to hide his amusement. There was always a complication when silver needed to be paid to hire swords and ships. The Briton pretended not to notice and pressed on.

“Natan has settled Jutes in the forts which surround the Soluente. Clausentum, Portus Adurni and Carys on the island we call Vectis. Their ships have closed the entrance to the great bay there, we shall have to beach our own ships further west and follow the River Afen to the hill fort. My friends cannot abandon the fortress and come to our aid or it will fall to the combrogi. It's the obvious route for us to take. If our presence is discovered I expect to have to fight my way through.”

TWO

Eofer watched as the rowers swept the sea with gentle strokes, keeping station below the wall of rock as the sun slowly sank in the West. Ahead of them, across a sea turned bronze by the dying sun, lay the great island which Cerdic had called Vectis. A quick glance towards Sæward told the eorle that his steer man shared his anxiety. To be caught, wallowing at the foot of great white cliffs as dusk came on, was the stuff of nightmares. Anwyl stood at the stern post as he studied the movement of the sea with a look of grim determination, as aware as any that the lives of his magister and every man aboard the three English ships depended on his good judgement.

A quick glance to the West and the Briton reached down and tossed another handful of bladder wrack into the current, and men chewed their lips as the tension mounted. The seaweed spun through the air to land an oar's length from the hull, and the man smiled and turned as the air-filled sacs which lined the fronds floated on the surface and edged the plant eastwards. The tide had finally turned, and the relief among Engle and Briton alike was palpable.

The sun was now a pyre resting on the sea, the sheer cliffs aflame as Eofer gave the order to pull past the headland and into the bay. He looked across. “Do we cut across the bight or hug the coastline?”

Anwyl exchanged a look with Cerdic who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Keep inshore. We still have a way to go before we enter Afen mouth. Even with the glow of the sun at our backs we may be seen from the shore or the clifftop on Vectis. If we remain in the shadow of the land we may yet pull through.”

It was Eofer's turn to exchange a look of concern with his own steer man. The nervousness of the Britons was obvious. Maybe, Eofer thought wryly, he should have asked for payment in gold.

As the
Sæ Wulf
cleared the headland, a small bay opened up to landward. The other English ships tucked in their wake as the current began to carry them across its face. Masts had been stepped, sails furled and stowed long before, and the three ships hugged the beach as the long low silhouettes blended into the shadows. Ahead of them, a series of sea stacks marched into the bay, grim and forbidding, a line of misshapen teeth jutting into their path. Far away on the opposite side of the bay matching stacks, their western edges licked orange by the last of the day's dying light, came off the island of Vectis, and Eofer shivered as he imagined the tiny force sliding uncontrollably into the maw of a monster. High above gulls wheeled, the white of their wings points of light, squarking and cawing as they circled their roosts.

Pulling past the stacks the land fell away and Sæward hauled on the big steering paddle as he edged closer to the land. Anwyl hurried across and Eofer noted again the anxiety in his voice. “You will have to stand out from the land here. There is an inlet up ahead which contains the port of Bol, the main trading place for the Durotrige. The twin spits of land which straddle the entrance are guarded day and night, we
will
be challenged.

Oswin, Eofer's youth, chose the moment to utter a verse and his lord winced at both the message and the timing.

“Then over sea-road exiles arrived.

Bold spear-men, ignorant of their fate…”

Eofer cast an anxious look at Cerdic to gauge his reaction to the doom-laden words, and his lip curled into a grimace as the Briton's face paled. “Oswin fancies himself as a scop,” he explained apologetically, “although so far the evidence of his words and timing say otherwise. I owe a debt to his father, but the way he fights I am hoping that an ash shaft will settle the account before too long.”

Cerdic recovered quickly, and he smiled reassuringly as he sought to make light of the awkward air which had settled over the ship. He raised his voice a notch, speaking clearly so that all of his men could hear their leader's confidence. “It's of no account, your patience with the boy speaks well of your character. You forget that we are Christian men, Eofer. The lord decides the number of our days, not the words of beardless boys.”

The eorle smiled his thanks at the Briton's handling of the situation and shot the boy a withering stare before raising his eyes to take in the bay which was opening up before them.

The distance could not have been much more than a couple of miles, three at most. On the far side the land was heavily wooded and they would be swallowed by the gloom. Before they could reach cover though they would have to cross the stretch where the cliffs petered out and the sunlight still shone brightly. They would be visible for miles around, three dark forms attempting to move with stealth. Even the Jutes could not be that blind he mused. “It can't be more than a few miles to this Afen mouth,” he said. “We still have enough sea room to steer inshore and hug the shadows. Isn't it worth the risk?”

Cerdic had moved aft to support his ship master and he shook his head. “Bol is their main port Eofer, it is heavily guarded. There are always manned ships at the entrance to the pool during the hours of daylight. It would be madness to take the risk when we are so close to our destination.”

Eofer sucked his teeth as he thought but, in truth, the final decision was not his to make. He turned to Sæward. “Take the straightest line across the bay.” Hopping down from the steering platform he spoke to his men as Sæward moved to the stern post and passed the information to the following ships. “We need to clip this bay, lads. The quicker we can do it, the safer we will be.”

As the crew bent to their oars, Eofer joined Cerdic at the stern as he scanned the surface of the inlet. Within moments the great curved stem post of the
Sæ Wulf
had emerged into the full glare of the dying sun, and the rowers redoubled their efforts as they attempted to reach the shadowy shoreline undetected. Eofer watched with mounting disquiet as the silvered wakes of the three ships reflected the last rays of the sun as it lanced across the bay. As he feared, a call came from the man in the bows before they were even half way to safety.

“Two sail in the East!”

All eyes turned towards a hook of land which curved into the bay in the distance and there, between the shingle headland and the great hump of Vectis opposite two sails had appeared, shining in the light like new nail heads on a wall.

Eofer looked on as Cerdic glanced anxiously towards his ship master. “Will we make the Afen?”

Anwyl shook his head, his expression grim. “They are already closer to the bay there, and they have the wind at their backs. Despite the tidal flow they should make it long before we do, lord.”

Sæward cut in. “
If
they know we are heading there.” They all turned his way and he shrugged. “Unless they know who these ships carry we could be anyone, we have no flags flying, not even sails set.” He scratched as his beard as he thought. “If we have been betrayed there would be more than a brace of sail heading in this direction, we could be those Durotrige guard ships you mentioned for all they know.”

Cerdic beamed. “He's right, we are still in their waters. The Afen forms the border between our civitas, they would be encroaching on our territory.” He turned to Anwyl. “Keep the shingle banks between us and you can warn them off. We outnumber them, and I doubt that Jutes will be able to tell one group of Britons from another.”

Anwyl nodded as Cerdic plucked at Eofer's sleeve. “Come, lets prepare for the worst. If it does come to a fight we will need a quick and decisive victory before the light goes completely. We cannot let them take news of our arrival back to the mainland if they discover our true identity.”

As the pair moved into the waist of the ship, Eofer stole a glance to the East. The ships were closer now and he could see that, although they were clearly ships of the North, they were smaller and therefore less heavily manned. They were obviously guard ships come to sniff at these warships which had appeared out of the setting sun. A robust response from the heavily armed men aboard the three English ships should see them off. Between them he could see the area which Cerdic had called the shingle banks. The water was whitened and choppier there as the sea plucked at the underwater ridge and his spirits rose. No ship master in his right mind would hazard his ship in such a place in fading light, and he settled in among the British warriors as Anwyl hailed them.

“Why are you in Durotrige waters, pagan?”

The answering voice drifted back across the waves, the accent confirming that these men were some of the new Jutish settlers. “It is our duty to safeguard the coast, Christ man.”

The man was about to continue but Anwyl cut him short with a snarl. “Wrong, pagan. Your duty is to safeguard the coast of Belgica. Scamper back to your Belgic bitch, puppy. Before we decide to redden the boards of your ships with your blood and add them to our fleet.”

Cerdic's spear men rose from the thwarts and glared across the waves, and Eofer chuckled to himself as he recognised the Jutish leader backtrack as he attempted to retreat without losing face.

“Keep to your side of the border or there will be a heavy price to pay,
wealas
,” he spat, and Eofer snorted as he saw the men surrounding him stiffen at the word. It was the term which all northern folk used for foreigners and carried more than a hint of scorn. Anwyl held a steady course as the Jutes sheered off and spilled the wind from their sails. Moving with the current but against the easterly wind now, they watched with relief as the oars slid proud of the Jutish hulls and began to stroke their way back to their own waters.

Cerdic flashed his helmsman a smile as the warriors exchanged grins around him. “Expertly handled, old friend. But remind me never to let you handle any negotiations which might call for more subtle diplomatic skills,” he laughed.

The bay ended abruptly as the coastline turned back on itself. Ahead, a hazy white line marked the point where yet another sandy spit ran parallel to the sea. Cerdic clapped Eofer on the shoulder as Sæward hauled at the steer board and headed in. “Afen mouth,” he smiled. “We have survived the sea crossing and the portents of Oswin's poetry at least.”

“That will have to do,” Eofer said. “We can't haul them any further in.”

The three ships were tied up stem to stern in a side channel of the Afen, as far from the main watercourse as possible. With their masts shipped their profile was as low as it could be, but not for the first time Eofer wished that he had his own ship,
Fælcen
, with them. The graceful sweep of the stem and stern of the snaca
still stood proud of the banks of rushes and eelgrass which covered the salt marsh on the Belgic side of the bay; but time snapped at their heels like a hungry wolf. Every moment spent at the ships ate into the hours of darkness, and they had upward of thirty miles to cover before they reached the safety of the hill fort at Sorbiodunum. The snake ships carried forty rowers apiece and, although they were as sleek and deadly as their namesake, the long hulls had been needed to transport the British magister and his large war-band across the sea. Eofer's own ship,
Fælcen
, was of a type which the English called a scegth, and he missed her keenly. Half the size of the big snacas and drawing barely a hand's breadth of water, the little ship at twenty oars a side was ideal for raiding far into the river systems of Britannia, Gaul and Frisia, and Eofer reflected ruefully that he would have been able to complete the journey to Sorbiodunum in a few hours if she were here.

Sæward read his thoughts and made a suggestion as the warriors formed into column on the higher ground. “We could load them with stones, lord. Let them settle deeper.”

Eofer shook his head. “We haven't the time, we need to be away. Besides,” he continued as he glanced about them, “can you see any?”

The ship master's teeth showed white in the moonlight as he ran his gaze across the banks of thick glutinous mud which surrounded them. “No, lord,” he admitted with a snort, “not to hand.”

Eofer leaned in and dropped his voice to a murmur. “If this goes badly we may need to get away quickly. We have no idea how much support this Cerdic has, it may even be a trap. I will leave Edwin, Bassa and Beornwulf with you, that will give you enough spears to take care of any curious locals. Anything more organised and you will have to fire the ships and follow on. If we are not back by the evening of the second day take the
Sæ Wulf
and we will meet up at Cnobheresburg. You will still have to fire the other ships,” he shrugged, “but that can't be helped. I will have to pay compensation to the owners, but that's the chance we all take when we sail in these waters.”

Sæward nodded grimly and they clasped forearms without another word. Movement from the bank caught the ship master's eye and he glanced across as a figure hurried across to them.

“My father wishes to know if there is a problem?”

Eofer changed his mood quickly and smiled brightly as he shook his head. “No Cynric, I am coming now. We have done the best we can to hide the ships.”

The British warriors had taken up the vanguard of the column as agreed, with Cerdic and his son safely ensconced half way along the steel clad line. The remaining English duguth of Eofer's hearth troop, Hemming, Imma Gold, Osbeorn and Octa were stood waiting for their eorle to lead them forward, with the youth standing tall behind their shields as they covered the rear. Beyond them, the crews of the other English ships formed into their divisions and waited impatiently for the off.

Imma, the flaxen hair which had lent him his name shining brightly from beneath the plates of his helm, winked mischievously as Eofer gained the column and the eorle let out a snort. The big man would be itching for a fight, he knew. Whether Cerdic and Cynric felt the same way, he had his doubts.

Cerdic looked back, and Eofer raised his arm to confirm that all were set. As the golden draco banner of the house of Uther was raised again over British soil and the breeze whispered across the salt marsh to unfurl its long tail, the column heft their shields and took their first paces towards the distant hill fort.