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
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
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