woodlands held the future for his people.
The thegn responsible for the men at the portal came forward as the horsemen approached, and Eofer flashed a grin and called a greeting as the tall Englishman before him removed his helm and cradled it in his arm. “Long shanca,” he laughed. “Did they send your ugly face here to scare the wealas away?” Eofer slipped from his saddle, walking to greet his old friend with a smile. They shared an embrace and he saw that the men lining the palisade were grinning happily as they parted.
“Eadweard long shanca,” he laughed, “the terror of the Britons. Who did you upset to get sent here?”
Eadweard had fought in the war in which Eofer had killed the Swedish king, Ongentheow, earning the nickname king's bane. It was the same campaign which had resulted in Eofer's father-in-law taking the Geatish king helm. To his surprise his friend's expression became sombre.
“A lot has happened since you sailed south in the spring, Eofer. The British have been raiding all along the frontier. They have burned Grantebrycge and harried almost as far as Theodford itself.” As Eofer's mouth fell open in shock, Eadweard indicated the earthwork with a jerk of his head. “I am holding a forward position here at the fleama ditch while practically the rest of the able-bodied men available in Anglia are busy building what men are already calling the miceldic , the great ditch, six miles further up the way.”
Eofer squinted across to the West. There, a half dozen miles away, the sunlight sparkled on the nearest reaches of the great waste of the Reaping. A home to trolls, sprites, marsh goblins and the barbarous Britons known as the Gyrwe it was the perfect place to anchor a defensive ditch, but the eorle found that the need irked him like an ill-fitting shirt and his promise to Cerdic began to tug at his conscience.
A gleam entered Eadweard's eye as he looked across to the great column of horses and men which filled the Great South Road. “Your men look like they could use a drink or two. They will be pleased to discover that we have just been supplied. Come,” he said, clapping Eofer on the shoulder, “I will slaughter an ox and we will mark your safe return with a feast. It will give my lads a break from peering down the road looking for British war-bands.”
Eofer accepted gratefully, and soon the meadow in the lee of the earthwork rang with the sound of men glad to be home. As the great carcass of an ox sizzled and spat above the flames, Eadweard sank another horn of ale and shook his head sadly. “It's no good, king's bane, the time is coming when we need to decide whether we are to live in the old country or the new. We have too few warriors to defend our lands here and guard the homeland. The German Sea is too broad to enable one to come to the aid of the other if they come under attack.” He pointed to the edge of the great woodlands which lay to the East. “On the other side of that the Wulfings are settling the coastal heathland between the Gipping and the Aeldu and threatening to push both northwards and south towards Gippeswic itself. Even the Wealas are becoming over bold.” He spat in disgust. “I never thought that such a time would come, but unless King Eomær sends more warriors here...” He paused and held the eorle with his gaze to add emphasis to his words. “I am not the only one thinking of returning to my lands at home, Eofer, rather than skulk behind earthen walls. If that’s the only choice available to us, Anglia will have to be abandoned.”
The sea spray hung in the air as the bows rose again, a thousand droplets shimmering like pearls in the morning light. Eofer braced himself, his back resting in the curve of the stern, thrilling to the sight of the little ship as she breasted another wave before switching his gaze outboard to take in the remainder of the English fleet. Twenty ships this year would make the journey back to the motherland of the
The thegn responsible for the men at the portal came forward as the horsemen approached, and Eofer flashed a grin and called a greeting as the tall Englishman before him removed his helm and cradled it in his arm. “Long shanca,” he laughed. “Did they send your ugly face here to scare the wealas away?” Eofer slipped from his saddle, walking to greet his old friend with a smile. They shared an embrace and he saw that the men lining the palisade were grinning happily as they parted.
“Eadweard long shanca,” he laughed, “the terror of the Britons. Who did you upset to get sent here?”
Eadweard had fought in the war in which Eofer had killed the Swedish king, Ongentheow, earning the nickname king's bane. It was the same campaign which had resulted in Eofer's father-in-law taking the Geatish king helm. To his surprise his friend's expression became sombre.
“A lot has happened since you sailed south in the spring, Eofer. The British have been raiding all along the frontier. They have burned Grantebrycge and harried almost as far as Theodford itself.” As Eofer's mouth fell open in shock, Eadweard indicated the earthwork with a jerk of his head. “I am holding a forward position here at the fleama ditch while practically the rest of the able-bodied men available in Anglia are busy building what men are already calling the miceldic , the great ditch, six miles further up the way.”
Eofer squinted across to the West. There, a half dozen miles away, the sunlight sparkled on the nearest reaches of the great waste of the Reaping. A home to trolls, sprites, marsh goblins and the barbarous Britons known as the Gyrwe it was the perfect place to anchor a defensive ditch, but the eorle found that the need irked him like an ill-fitting shirt and his promise to Cerdic began to tug at his conscience.
A gleam entered Eadweard's eye as he looked across to the great column of horses and men which filled the Great South Road. “Your men look like they could use a drink or two. They will be pleased to discover that we have just been supplied. Come,” he said, clapping Eofer on the shoulder, “I will slaughter an ox and we will mark your safe return with a feast. It will give my lads a break from peering down the road looking for British war-bands.”
Eofer accepted gratefully, and soon the meadow in the lee of the earthwork rang with the sound of men glad to be home. As the great carcass of an ox sizzled and spat above the flames, Eadweard sank another horn of ale and shook his head sadly. “It's no good, king's bane, the time is coming when we need to decide whether we are to live in the old country or the new. We have too few warriors to defend our lands here and guard the homeland. The German Sea is too broad to enable one to come to the aid of the other if they come under attack.” He pointed to the edge of the great woodlands which lay to the East. “On the other side of that the Wulfings are settling the coastal heathland between the Gipping and the Aeldu and threatening to push both northwards and south towards Gippeswic itself. Even the Wealas are becoming over bold.” He spat in disgust. “I never thought that such a time would come, but unless King Eomær sends more warriors here...” He paused and held the eorle with his gaze to add emphasis to his words. “I am not the only one thinking of returning to my lands at home, Eofer, rather than skulk behind earthen walls. If that’s the only choice available to us, Anglia will have to be abandoned.”
The sea spray hung in the air as the bows rose again, a thousand droplets shimmering like pearls in the morning light. Eofer braced himself, his back resting in the curve of the stern, thrilling to the sight of the little ship as she breasted another wave before switching his gaze outboard to take in the remainder of the English fleet. Twenty ships this year would make the journey back to the motherland of the
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