Some New Faces
When he sees the largesse expended upon the Black Pig by Thegn Osgar-Lytelman, Eorl Sighere gifts him the ship outright. Thus Sighere enhances his reputation as a good and generous Eorl, while putting Lytelman publicly in his debt; while Osgar enhances his status as an independent Thegn who has not only arrived at the moot with a strong warband but also has his own ship to take them to war.
One down-side to the new arrangement is that those of the crew who are Sighereston gebur – which is most of them – are assigned elsewhere. Hwaetman, however, seems desperate to stick with the Black Pig, even to the extent of relinquishing his role as master. He explains to Lytelman that the ship was once his but he fell into debt and was forced to sell it to Eorl Sighere who allowed him to stay on as master for a cut of trading profits. It is his hope that one day he will have the good fortune to be able to buy it back. He admits that although he sailed the White Sea in his youth, he might not be the best sailing master for a war-raid. He asks Lytelman for an extra share as lead seaman and in return he will try to find a salt-water crew and an experienced master. Alone among the original crewmen, his nephew, the youth Waebheard, stays with his uncle.
The demand for any who can handle a ship – even those who are not salt-water seamen – is very high and most have already been spoken for. However, the Lytelman name conjures forth two lads and a woman who claim to have sailed the White Sea before. The woman, Hild, has been to an impressive range of places but seems to be struggling with both her age and her gender in finding a berth. She is a plain-looking woman in her forties and has a nasty cough but you can see from her physique she’s pulled a few oars in her time and comes through Hwaetman’s knot tests with flying colours. The other two, Beda and Stibba, are non-descript but Hwaetman pronounces them sound seamen. None of them are any sort of warrior, but as Hwaetman says you have plenty of spearmen.
One Foot
Attracting a competent master is more troublesome. Hwaetman dismisses a number of candidates on the grounds that he could do a better job himself. However, towards the end of the week he tells Lytelman and his companions that he has found a possible candidate called One Foot. He looks slightly uneasy as he tells you that tells you that the man is a legend, though not entirely in a good way. He is a great seaman of vast experience, but also quarrelsome, cantankerous and a notorious drunk. He has just fallen out with his previous employer and seeks a new ship.
One Foot has rotten teeth, stinks of booze and has one foot, the other being substituted by a carved, whalebone peg. He is scruffy, unshaven and unkempt but surprisingly has a sword strapped to his waist. It looks the best kept thing about him. He gruffly asks to see the ship and after some teeth-sucking pronounces it a fit vessel. When introduced to Thegn Osgar he manages to be reasonably courteous and respectful and is probably sober (though he might not have been the previous night). He wants eight shares which is a little rich for a man unlikely to stand his place in the shield wall, nor likely to play a full hand in the manning of the ship, but not completely out of the way. He clearly feels Lytelman should be jumping at the opportunity to hire him. Lytelman reluctantly agrees. One Foot says he will return tomorrow and asks for the whole crew to be on hand.
In the early part of the following morning One Foot stomps his way, kit-bag over his shoulder, to where the Black Pig is drawn up on one of the strands. Most of the crew are still abed, either on board or on the sands using the ship as a windbreak. With little prelude, One Foot shouts them awake, poking laggards with the butt of the spear he was using as a walking staff or prodding them with his peg. With much swearing and cursing he marshals the crew, making them line-up before him so that he can take their measure. Much grumbling and some hard words pass between him and some of the Gefndeners, but Lytelman makes it clear that they are preparing for war and the new Master speaks for him, however roughly, in all matters relating to the ship and crew discipline. Once he has met each man (and woman) and looked them over with an appraising eye, One Foot has them put the Black Pig into the waters of the Wasterwic lagoon and clamber aboard.
Long hours that day and for the next two One Foot has the crew of the Black Pig exercise at the oar and at raising and lowering the sail. He works them until their backs scream in agony and their hands become red raw with blisters. When they complain that their hands were too sore for them to wield their weapons he laughs and suggests they bathe their hands in piss – their own or his if need be – to harden them up.
Over the next few days One Foot and the crew develop a grudging respect for each other despite his rough tongue. For their part the crew come to realise that the man knows his craft and though his sardonic wit is seldom appreciated by its recipient it starts to generate smirks from those around, for his barbs are seldom far from the mark. For his part, although his tongue-lashings remain savage, he never raises a hand to a crewman. He has few words of praise but scarcity brings value and even a nod of approval becomes a thing of worth to them. He also shows signs that his humour is not entirely a one-way street. Clearly a man for the ladies, when an exploratory foray in the direction of Alefrith are rebuffed in no uncertain terms, (her saex and his bollocks spoken of together) he takes it in good part. He has better luck when he shifts his attentions to Hild – it seems they have some history together. The men look for signs of these two incidents in his treatment of the two women but if anything he seems to have gained a measure of respect for Alefrith and they can detect no change in his attitude to Hild – he is as abusive to her as to the rest of them on shipboard.
From Warband to Crew
One Foot organises the crew into four watches of six apiece. In the first watch he puts the best warriors, including Herewulf and Beornfrith the two bowmen. Indeed in an unwonted, possibly drink-fueled, display of goodwill, One Foot pronounced them lucky to have two such fine archers. Slings are useless on a crowded ship but a couple of bowmen can make it very awkward for any approaching enemy ship. He advises them to bring plenty of arrows and understand that they’ll never get them back.
Each of the other watches has two seamen apiece, though due to the lack of sailors, Tohrwulf, who claims some familiarity with boats and the sea, is pressed into this role on the second watch. One Foot’s apparent trust in his seafaring abilities (not to mention an extra share) makes the young West Geat’s breast fill with pride – perhaps placing more weight upon One Foot’s precise words “better than a Gefndener”, than was due. No doubt it was this pride that led him that evening to hold forth at some length, boasting about the fierce waters of the Catsgate where he was raised and comparing it distainfully to the placid White Sea – words that would come back to haunt him.
A command group comprising Osgar, Wistan, Leofdag and One Foot himself stand aside from this arrangement. It seems that even One Foot acknowledges that it is not mete for a man of Thegn Osgar’s status to sweat at the oar with the rest of them – although in fact Lytelman, like Tohrwulf, is “better than a Gefndener” having come from the shores of the White Sea. One Foot may also consider Wistan Aetheling too noble to pull an oar, who can say? However, he does value Wistan’s exceptional eyesight which suit him perfectly to a role as look-out in the bow. Ideally he would have had him in the crosstrees. However, as a sailor, Wistan is most definitely no better than a Gefndener.
It seems young Leofdag has been blessed by Thunor with the gift of the Weather-Wise. He demonstrates to the crew that provided the prevailing wind is not too strong and contrary he can fill the sail with a gentle breeze. This requires great concentration and is very tiring but he can manage this for a few hours a day if necessary. This demonstration fills One Foot with something very near delight for it means that in need he can exert fine control over the ship regardless of the wind. Moreover Leofdag can predict the weather with accuracy some days ahead.
On the morning of the fourth day One Foot sets about loading the ship with all its stores, wargear and other paraphernalia. Each crewman is required to show what they wish to bring aboard. Weapons and armour are not challenged – although he requires armour to be stowed away and shields hung on the outside of the ship on pegs set just in front of each thwart. One Foot does not recommend these things in a shipboard fight anyway – certainly not on a ship this small and this crowded. A belt weapon and a hand for the ship is what he recommends – especially for landsmen. If you do fear iron more than drowning – or swim like a stone anyway – then seafights are seldom a surprise and there is usually an opportunity to kit up if you have to. Spears, bows (and arrows) and a supply of daroth are assigned are stacked in four tall, leather-lined withy bins One Foot has had fitted to the ship – two at the bow, two at the stern.
On anything he could not be convinced had a purpose aboard ship (or at a pinch on campaign on land) One Foot was harsh. Many’s the treasured cookpot, tafl set and large drinking horn was left on the beach or hurriedly sold to local merchants, along with a lot of bulky clothing that One Foot thought surplus to requirements. A few exceptions were successfully argued. Wistan managed to persuade him that his sarucraeft cooking spit arrangement was an essential campaign tool, though it was buried deep in the darkest recesses of ship, under the gangway. His runemarked spear is assigned to the bin of his choice with a couloured ribbon ties below its head
Surprisingly, he did allow Oswine to bring his lyra aboard and his friend Grimcytel his hand-drum. The two had entertained the crew throughout their stay a Wasterwic. For two such plain lads (Grimcytel in particular is notably ugly) they have fine voices, know a great many songs and tunes and play together well. They were much in demand that evening as One Foot ordered the broaching of the last of the casks of ale and mead in the camp and put most of the remaining fresh food into the soon-to-be-discarded cookpots.
The following morning they put out onto the lagoon and scoot out to a cove on the largely deserted northern shore towards its eastern end. Orders were that the following day the fleet would set sail for the Eowland. Wiglaf would depart first with the largest, fastest ships. Smaller ships should follow as they might, in their wake. All must make their way to the strands at the northern end of Eowland. From whence they would march the length of the island, crushing resistance and putting all to the sword – unless they surrendered immediately. Only the Queen of the Eowan should be spared for it was for Wiglaf himself to subdue her and make her his bride. Eowland would be settled by Geats and the threat of the Eowan cancelled forever.
When they got under way the sailors marvelled at the handling of the ship, which actually seemed better for the stowing of all the gear. Even the landsmen could appreciate the general lack of clutter and obstacle around the ship. One Foot made it clear that things were to stay this way and dire words were issued on the fate of anyone who failed to observe this rule.
On reaching this new strand, which was largely deserted, Leofdag announced that he had heard there was a Thunor-shrine but a few hours walk away from this spot and he had business there. He promised to be back before it was time to leave the following day. Evening came and the men shared out the last of their fresh provisions. Leofdag still had not returned and men talked uneasily about taking to the seas without their Thunor priest.
The sun was well established in the sky the following morning – there being little more of an hour’s darkness at the beginning of the month of Aefter Lirra – when they saw around a dozen large craft rowing their way eastward through the relatively narrow neck of the Wasterwic. Beyond they were told was a much smaller lagoon, Easterwic and beyond that another narrow passage into the White Sea. One Foot gave the order to get the Black Pig in the water. As they did so, sharp-sighted Wistan cried that he could see two figures hurrying down the slope towards them. One of them he thought was Leofdag.
Ruric
So indeed it was. The ship was in the water and the first shift of rowers were at their oars, when Leofdag panted down to the shore. With him was an unkempt dark-haired man who had “runaway slave” written all over him, from his raggedy clothes to the lack of even an eating knife at the rawhide loop that passed for his belt, to the rope welts at his wrist, ankle and neck. Leofdag asks permission to bring the man aboard for he believes him Thunor-sent. The man, a Dane by the name of Ruric, was at the Thunor-shrine seeking sanctuary when he arrived. The priests were considering their options. He had thought little about the man but after completing his business at the shrine he had taken a short rest by the sacred oak and fallen asleep. There he had had a dream in which Thunor himself had appeared and bade him take the slave with him.
Lytelman sucks his teeth, for to take another man’s slave is considered theft. In law he should either return him to his master or take his head. However, a priest’s dreams are not to be discounted lightly, so he nods his assent and the two men wade out and clamber aboard. Under his arm Leofdag carries what seems to be an inflated leather sack which he hands to One Foot who stores it in a place under the gangplank which looks to have been kept for that very purpose.
Under questioning by Lytelman, Ruric reveals that he is a Spear-Dane from Hroarscytel on the isle of Sealand. He was taken by Eowan pirates on a voyage to Geatland and kept upon that island for three years. He was then taken by Geats in the raid last summer but instead of being freed was simply re-enslaved. He heard of the moot and followed his master’s warband to it, in the hope that somehow he might find a ship that might take him on, for he is a good warrior and experienced seaman. When he heard that they were going to attack the Eowan, he was heartened for he has much knowledge of that land that might be of advantage any crew that accepted him. However, he was reviled as a runaway, wherever he approached and was lucky not to have been killed. At length he heard of a Thunor-shrine and resolved to go there to pray and promise future sacrifice. Clearly his prayers were answered by the Thunderer for here he is. He will be a loyal companion and turn his hand to any work suitable for a freeman. He does not demand a share but asks that Lytelman rewards him as he sees fit for his service when this is all over. He requests a weapon.
Into the White Sea
All the while the crew have been rowing eastward through the straits between Wasterwic and Easterwic. The water is crowded with many ships attempting the same but under One Foot’s careful eye they avoid any collisions – though they see a few – and emerge sometime later that day out of a second strait into the White Sea, amongst the first of the smaller ships to do so. It is as they reach open seas that Gefndeners begin to realise what they have let themselves in for. Most of them have never even seen the sea before and as the unfamiliar motion and swell of the sea hits them many of them begin to vomit.
Among the more persistent vomiters is Tohrwulf – much to the evident delight of most of the sailors who were forced to endure his boasts of the towering Cat-gate seas during the preceding week. In between emptying his stomach and the ensuing dry heaves, he is heard to complain that it is the gentleness of the swell that is upsetting his stomach, he would rather a rougher sea. At least he demonstrates enough seamanship to throw up over the side – which is more than could be said of some of the Gefndeners.
A gentle breeze running from the North East is pronounced by One Foot to be helpful, although he keeps the oars going at a gentle pace – to give them a little more speed, he said, although it might have been as much to keep the crew’s minds off their seasickness. Once out from the shore he gives up the helm to Hwaetman, who gives it turn to Hild as the day wears on. Towards evening – although there is still plenty of summer light to sail in, Lytelman asks that the crew be released from their tasks to listen to him a while. One Foot who is at the helm once more lashes it in place and calls the crew to order.
Thegn Osgar’s Cunning Plan
Osgar says that it is in his mind to depart from the letter of King Wiglaf’s orders and try to make a landing further south on the island. For it seems to him that this is a better way to glory and plunder than joining with the main host. It might aid the King’s plan too, by discouraging the Eowan from gathering all their force against him in the North knowing that their burgs further south were vulnerable to attack. He is minded to sail down either the east or west coast of Eowland until they find what an opportunity to land and raid.
Hrothgar repeats what he had gleaned from drinking amongst the Weather Geats: that the east coast was rocky and had few suitable beaches for a landing, and that the west was a narrow channel but said to have more hospitable strands. One-Foot acknowledged that this was so but that you would need a pilot for the west coast to navigate its treacherous shoals and we didn’t have one. The east coast was little better – it would be difficult to hug the rocky coast just looking for inlets, although he knew there were such because the Eowan would swarm out of them like rats out of a hole in their small, sleek craft to prey on passing traffic. He thought there must be half a dozen such but knew not exactly where.
Then Ruric spoke up saying that he knew a place on the east where he was taken after his capture called Sikvarp by the natives. It was a sandy bay sheltered from view by a rocky headland that hooked round from the north so that it was difficult to see from the south and impossible from the north or east. Once inside the ambit of the hook the bay was split north to south by a natural break-water in the form of a large, low sandbank. There appeared to be navigable channels at each end of the bank into a sheltered sandy bay beyond – although he had only ever seen the southern one in use. There was a lookout platform on the tip of the hook so it would be very difficult to approach unseen from any direction. Beyond the break-water was an island in the middle of the bay upon which was a burgh. It had no walls or palisades but a series of hedges set around it in which an attacker might become lost. There was a further settlement on the western shore of the bay where the local folk beached their boats. He thought there were perhaps two hundred folk living there in all but by no means were all of them warriors. Some of the women were witches though – as was often the case in Eowland.
Osgar sucked his teeth at the thought of so many foes – belike too many for his thirty or so men, even if the witches in the end turned out to be of no account – which he doubted. It was One-Foot who suggested that perhaps they could approach some other craft of similar size and speed and see if we could interest them in a joint enterprise. It was true that one did not need Wistan’s sharp eyes to see the other Geatish ships all around them not far distant and they had passed close to a few and exchanged words during the day. Of course, there was a risk that they might refuse and word of the attempt might come to Wiglaf in time. However, nothing risked, nothing gained. He did not need to voice the thought that most like it would just be Lytelman’s head adorning a pike if that came to pass.
The Spearhafoc
Dusk comes at last, followed by a brief period of true-dark, for though the weather is fine, it is cloudy and little moonlight or star glimmer shines upon the waters. One Foot has the crew shorten sail. The first watch stand guard while the others rest and sleep awhile. It is in the very dark of the night that Wistan Wulfinga, his ears very nearly as sharp as his eyes, whispers to his watch-mates that he can hear cries some way off across the water. Some cautiously agree, others simply shrug. Saefrith suggests that perhaps it was but the cry of gulls, attracting the scorn of One Foot who says that only a Gefndener would think gulls cry at night. Wistan peers into the night but even his eyes cannot pierce the gloom. In the end there is nought to be done but keep a watch and await whatever the dawn brings.
The dawn is never far off at midsummer. The previous day they had marked a small, slender craft that Hwaetman had admired for its lines and the deft way it handled. They troubled not with their oars but were managing to keep company with much larger ships by sail power alone and had overhauled the Black Pig during the course of the day, much to the irritation of One Foot. One Foot said it was the Spearhafoc. He knew its master by repute, Godmar, a Weather Geat who made it his craft to carry bespoke cargoes and passengers around the White Sea. He’d heard he’d taken on some inland East Geat thegnling and his warband. No wonder he wasn’t bothering with his oars.
This morning the Spearhafoc no longer glides through the waters, but wallows, simply running before the light breeze with shortened sails. It is but a few cables from the Black Pig and at this distance it does not take Wistan’s sharp eyes to see that there is no steorman at the steering oar and no sign of anyone else either. They pull alongside and One Foot uses it as an opportunity to have them practice a grapple and boarding. He is disappointed with the result and lets them all know it, but few pay him much heed as they stare at the empty ship.
There is little sign of a struggle. No blood stains the decks. A sword lies discarded on the stern platform, a few spears and shields look as though they have been dropped and there are gaps in the shield array. Otherwise there is no clue as to what happened here. You find yourselves in sole possession of a small well-equipped, well stocked ship that looks to have had a crew of thirteen. It is easy to count them for twelve kit bags are found under the rowing benches, with a further one tucked under the stern platform. The Spearhafoc is filled with supplies and equipment, tucked away in similarly cunning fashion to the way One Foot loaded the Black Pig.
There are as many suggestions as to how this must have come to pass as there are crewmen on the Black Pig, but none has the support of any great proof. Many speak of Eowan sorcery, though why such notorious pirates should leave the ship unlooted cannot be explained. Hrothgar mutters darkly that the ship smells of the dead, though when challenged on this he can say no more and looks surprised that such words have issued from his own mouth.
One Foot has other concerns. He says that the custom of the sea is clear that should a ship be found and there be no-one alive aboard then it is falls to those that find it. Inevitably, in such circumstances, there are seldom witnesses to say that the crew were not slain and dumped over the side. It was a common pirate’s defence. So be prepared for such whispers, if you take this ship, he says to Lytelman.If we want to take the ship as a prize, then we will need to put a crew aboard. We have plenty of spearman-rowers and perhaps the Black Pig would be better a bit lighter but we are very short of seamen. We’d need to spare at least two including a helm. We could tow her at a pinch but it would definitely slow us down.
He points out that two, maybe three, ships have changed course to approach you. If you want an opportunity to speak to some other ships and see if they want to join the venture then this is it. He suggests that the kit bags be taken aboard the Black Pig for examination. Other than the sword there is nothing of particular value on deck. However, One Foot has them pull out the casks of water, salted meat and fish in the cavity under the stern platform, and sends Leofric, the smallest man in the crew, to squirm in right to the back, where he finds a small chest that he pulls forth. That too is transferred to the Black Pig.
The first ship to catch up with them arrives at just about the point at which the chest is being transferred to the Black Pig. It is a sleek, well ordered vessel named the Blue Fish. Its Brimwisa is a tall, rangy man in his thirties with nose like the blade of a franca called Beorthulf. Like most of his crew – thirty weathered, hardbitten looking seamen – he is Weather Geat. Surprisingly, the youngest member of his crew by some way appears to be his steorman, Alfred – perhaps a son or nephew learning his trade. Despite his youth he brings the Blue Fish in smoothly enough and the crew show their skills by raising their oars together on cue.
With the Black Pig and the Blue Fish secured stern to stern the two Brimwisas parley. Beorthulf nods at Lytelman’s account of what has happened here. He says they were close enough to see that the Spearhafoc was drifting and could see that whatever occurred when they boarded her, it obviously did not involve a fight. He and makes no challenge of their right to salvage. However, eyeing up the Black Pig’s crew he clearly sees a trade opportunity. He offers men to crew the Spearhafoc in return for a half share in its ownership. Lytelman shows polite interest but soon brings the talk around to his plans for a raid further down the Eowan coast. Beorthulf is clearly interested but before their conversation is fully underway the second ship comes up with them.
The arrival of the Osprey is a far more chaotic affair altogether. A large ship with some fifty men aboard, it is clearly not manned exclusively by prime seamen like the Blue Fish. However, the steorman seems to know his business and eventually manages to bring his bark alongside though not without a great deal of cursing, swearing and one lost oar. The world shifts very slightly as the crew of the Black Pig start to realise that there may be sailors worse than Gefndeners.
When they finally come to rest, its Brimwisa simply jumps aboard the Black Pig and introduces himself as Eoppa. From his accent you guess he is a West Geat – a large swaggering man wearing what looks a very fancy axe in his belt. His crew are a mixed bunch. There are a few Weather Geats, a contingent of East Geats under a couple of young thegn’s sons and a mixed bag of foreigners – Danes, Sweons, Saxons and even a couple of Norse. His steorman is a weather-beaten veteran named Hunstan.
Lytelman has to replay his conversation with Beorthulf. Unlike Beorthulf, Eoppa interrupts constantly and to ask questions or make observations. He cocks an eyebrow over the tale of finding the Spearhafoc abandoned but Beorthulf supports the story. In the end he simply shrugs and says to Thegn Osgar, “Well you are either a very lucky or a very ruthless man. Either is good.” He is very enthusiastic about the idea of raiding further down the coast.
The principle agreed, the discussion turns to negotiation. It quickly becomes apparent that this is not Lytelman’s forte and One Foot soon takes over. In the end they thrash out an agreement. Essentially, each of the three ships on the venture will take a third of any loot (Eoppa’s efforts to have it based on headcount was over-ruled by the other two). Thegn Osgar would be the expedition leader, but could be over-ruled by both the other two in agreement. The venture could be dissolved by any ship, provided no other ship was in presence of the enemy. They further agreed that in return for a quarter share each of its value when sold, the Blue Fish and the Osprey would each put four men on the Spearhafoc. The Black Pig would provide a steorman and a Brimwisa.
The three Brimwisas cut their palms and shake hands on the deal to seal their brotherhood. As they do so, Wistan alerts them to another ship bearing down on them from the north. At this distance it looks to be quite large. There ensues a further discussion over whether they should extend their fellowship and invite this newcomer. Eoppa is very much against – he doesn’t want to share the loot further and anyway can’t bear to go through all that again. Beorthulf is less sure – he takes Eoppa’s point (both of them) – but says there will be no loot at all if our force is not strong enough to take it. He looks at Lytelman.
The Lytelman glanced over the stern, for a few moments. Then he spoke.
“No.
“No, I think we three bands must be enough. Thunor has shown us the way that we can strike a war-cunning blow against the enemy. We are four, five score blades, and a bold strike to the sorceries of the Eowan will be a tale none of us will cease to tell by winter fire. But too many more – not just is it the lesser deed – but it robs our king of too many spears at his back. I do not believe that the Friend of Mankind was telling us to begin a whole new army! So I say, let us wave these good people politely onward and carry on with our raid. Be small, but hit fast and hit hard. Hit where the witches least expect. Deal harshly with them, and then move on north to take the Eowan in their flank. Roll them and their treasure up like an aurochs hide!”
Thus speaks Thegn Osgar and the so the crews leap to action. Saeberht looks nervous as a man who had never seen the sea two days ago, would, were he suddenly put in charge of a ship. However, he has the reassuring presence of Hwaetman with him as steorman. They are joined by four competent looking veteran seamen from the Blue Fish, all carrying shield and spear as well as their kitbags, and four burly-looking freebooters from the Osprey who look, if not prime seamen, at least oarworthy. All four ply their oars to achieve some sea room and then spread their sails. An observer might think that they had missed their course slightly for they were taking a more easterley course than was ideal for reaching the strands of the northern part of Eowland. The pursuing vessel, a ship of forty or fifty oars, maintains the proper course and is soon lost even to Wistan’s sight.
Thegn Osgar Shares the Spoils of the Spearhafoc
One Foot declares the wind fit enough for their purposes and that no rowing is required. The crew has little enough to do but examine treasures from the Spearhafoc and try armour for its fit, while Lytelman and his advisors set about sorting and allocating the loot as fairly as possible.
The most handled item is the walrus tusk with its carved depiction of Ingwe sporting a mighty phallus. Curiosity is further piqued by Leofdag’s assertion that it is a thing of power – and his blushing refusal to say more on the subject. It is soon discovered that gripping it in hand, point upwards, induces a strong and lasting stiffening of the member. This engenders much wonder and ribald comment in the men, disgust in Alefrith and outright hilarity from Hild. Hild avers that she would be the most worthy recipient of such an item, for she would likely make much better use of it than any one man. That is, unless there were a man in the crew who might say her nay and claim that they were in more need. Here she casts an eye around the ship, finding many who cannot meet her gaze, including One-Foot, who is uncharacteristically silent on the matter, finding a place on the horizon which affords him greater interest. Of course, it was entirely in the gift of the great lord Osgar, and for all she knew he might have other plans for it. Her speech causes a great outbreak of mockery and teasing amongst the crew. Some of Lytelman’s longer-standing companions are even emboldened enough speculate upon the likely thoughts of the thegn’s wife, Nothgyth, on the matter. Thegn Osgar calls the crew to order and once the laughter dies down he gives his judgements, standing upon the stern platform.
The disposition of the most valued prize of the four byrnies, this proves less difficult for the thegn than might otherwise have been the case. The smallest byrnie only fits Leofdag, son of Tondberht, and the most battle-worthy amongst the fyrd, for all his small stature. The next in size fits only One Foot – from amongst the notables of the crew at least. There are a few candidates for the next, but Osgar sets it aside for his sworn man, Saefrith, currently on the Spearhafoc.
The last is the most difficult. Although the huge Sweon, Sweyn, had been most keen to squeeze his mighty bulk into the largest of the byrnies it was plain that it was too small and made him look like a trussed pigeon. However, it fits perfectly upon the next largest crewman. Grimcytel, the youngest and poorest of the Gefndene fyrd arrived at the muster with naught but his father’s shield and spear and a scramasaex. Many thought that the thegn would never waste such a fine gift upon such an untried youth and would instead save it for his own gifting chest. Yet they were were proved wrong as the wide-handed hlafod, calls the youth forth and gives him the precious mail shirt. Overcome with emotion at this unexpected turn of fortune, the young man immediately bends his knee and offers up the hilt of his scramasaex, pledging to become Osgar’s sworn man. Cynics mutter that perhaps the young man was not after all as green as he was cabbage-looking, for being sworn to a great hero might be the best way to avoid being killed for his armour by some some stronger and deadlier foe. More generous folk hope that it will be the making of the lad.
The remainder of the weapons and armour of note are distributed as follows: to Svipdag the fine scramasaex; to Herewulf the bow and its case; to Beornfrith the six rune-marked arrowheads. Sweyn receives a grimhelm, as does Hrothgar, in gratitude for which he too bends the knee to Thegn Osgar and swears to be his man. To Wistan is given the sword and the pot of healing salve to dispose for the common-weal. To mighty cheers from the crew, Hild is rewarded with the walrus tusk and is adjured to use it well.
A quarter of the hack silver and gold is set aside against the possibility that the king might at sometime claim a share. (There is some muttering at this, but none speak their thoughts aloud). The rest is split amongst all those who have not obtained an item of value, at a rate of 17 sceattas a share. Lytelman takes the leftover silver – some five marks – and all the individual pieces of treasure – amber, mirror, cup, horn, gold decorated belt and soapstone dish – as the ship’s share. He then bids his fyrdmen sort out amongst themselves the mundane weapons and armour so that all are better armed and armoured than before. Indeed Thegn Osgar now has a warband every man of which, at least in respect of their equipment, might take the front rank in a shieldwall. Spirits are high.
Wistan Rides High
So the day passes in silver counting and celebration. The boys Oswine and Grimcytel draw forth their instruments and make merry tunes to entertain their crew-mates – although there was little enough room for dancing. Grimcytel in particular imparted a joyous energy to the rhythms of his drum to accompany his friend on the lira. The other three ships kept company easily enough, in the light northerly winds, although the Osprey was on occasion seen to put out the oars.
The plan was for the small fleet to take a wide sweep eastward, around the northern end of Eowland, hopefully out of range of the Eowan pirates who haunted the eastern seaboard and sight of their own Geatish comrades. When they judged they had made enough sea-room, they would take a more westerly course in the hope of reaching the Eowan coast more or less at Sikvarp. It would take both luck and judgement to find exactly the right spot by this method. One Foot said that an easy day today heading south-east and a south-west course tomorrow would give them the best chance. If they had to claw their way south along the Eowland coast for a portion then so be it. It was much better to err to the north than to the south, from whence it would be hard to make their way northwards again against the prevailing winds.
The architects of this plan were One Foot and Ruric but its execution depended much upon Wistan and his sharp eyes, for it was found that if he were hoist to the crosstrees he could make out the coast of Eowland even when it was over the horizon at deck level. All the true sailors could climb to the masthead easily enough but Wistan was no sailor. One Foot had them rig a rope with a stirrup for Wistan’s foot to hoist him up to where a sling was placed at the crosstrees that he could loop over his shoulders and under his arms so that he could not easily fall. It was a laborious and undignified process and it afforded the high-spirited crew great amusement to see the proud Aetheling dangling above clinging to the bucking pole as if it were unbroken horse he was trying to best. At one point he managed to lose the stirrup and had to be rescued by young Waebheard shinning up the mast to replace his foot in the loop while he dangled from the safety rope by his ocksters. However, he took no harm and by the end of the day seemed more at ease at the masthead – though no closer to being able to climb the mast unaided.
In the Dark of the Night
At length the day draws to a close and the long summer twilight gives way to a short period of true dark. On a charcoal-black, moonless night, the only light comes from the Saetur-runed ever-burning torch that Thegn Osgar affixes to the stern post – more to provide a beacon to the other ships lest they become separated in the night than to illumine the dark. A few men from the fourth watch stand guard. Wistan is asleep after the exertions of his day, but lies cradling his rune-marked spear in his arms. Lytelman is awake, standing at the prow, giant-wrought axe at his belt, Ingwe-blessed helm upon his head.
Suddenly the calm of the night is split by a shriek from amidships where lies Hrothgar. “The Dead, the Dead are coming. They are here!” he cries and leaps to his feet.
No-one sleeps through his warning, but some do no more at first than curse him for his nightmares and roll over in their blankets. However, those on watch see a welling of the waters on the port bow and a ghastly ship arise out of the sea, streaming water and limned in a lambent yellowish glow, and come alongside the Black Pig. From it swarm the unquiet dead of the deep – Sae-gasts, Brim-lichs, Ran-theofs – their clutching hands seeking to grasp the living and drag them back to the depths of Ran’s realm. Ahead of them comes a bow-wave of mind-warping terror that washes over the ship.
Some are so taken by fear that they freeze in mid-action. Others mill in confusion and clutch each other for comfort. Others just cower under their blankets like children afeared of night-shadows. Some few even attempt to flee. Hild and Wighere actually throw themselves over the starboard side in their terror. Alefrith would have done the same but for Tohrwulf. Whether through torpor or terror – he is still lying in his blankets between the thwarts when a shapely ankle goes by, heading for starboard. He grabs it and wrestles Alefrith to the deck in their own private struggle.
However, there are those of the Black Pig’s crew that have fought the unquiet dead before and been victorious. Sweyn lays about him with his great giant-wrought axe. Wistan’s rune-marked spear flickers too and fro amongst their ranks. Herewulf and Leofdag open the bellies of those who get past them with their rune-marked scramasaexes. Lytelman too has a blade that will part the putrid, waterlogged flesh of the lichs and stands in the bow wielding his great axe.
Others less fortunate in their weaponry, finding their mundane blades of little use, take other measures to defend the ship. Svipdag seizes the witch brand from the sternpost and finds that the dead shrink from Saetur’s flame. Meanwhile the Dane, Ruric snatches up a shield from the starboard array and organises those who retain their wits sufficiently to do likewise, forming a shield burgh to keep the ghasts from swarming aboard amidships. Mantican, the veteran Raedwalding hearthguard, Herefrith the marshman and young Oswine the scop stand with him, along with Waebheard who, though no shield-wise warrior, snatches up a battle-board and joins their flank.
It is Hrothgar who leads the counter-attack. Though armed only with a spear grabbed at random from a weapon bin, he seems to have no difficulty in piercing the flesh of the sea-ghasts with it. Wherever he stands they quail and shrink away. Most of the brim-lichs wield no weapon but seek to grapple the Geats with clutching hands and pull them onto their craft, no doubt to make them Ran-theofs – slaves to the goddess of the angry depths – like themselves. However, there is one amongst them with helm and sword who urges them on. It locks its baleful gaze upon Hrothgar and Hrothgar stares back in a battle of wills. Then Hrothgar, with a mighty shout, casts his spear at the lich. It catches it full upon the chest and it is pitched back into its ghastly ship. Hrothgar collapses upon the deck.
However, it is as if the brim-lichs have lost their purpose and cohesion, while the terror gripping the hearts of the Geats eases. Those with maege-touched blades redouble their attacks as their foes waver. They reap a battle-harvest amongst the unarmed brim-lichs, hacking off limbs and heads and piercing their rotting bodies that burst like overripe fruit. As they begin to recover their wits, more of the crew join Ruric’s makeshift shield burgh and combine to throw the lichs into the sea or back onto their glimmering water-logged craft, which sinks back under the waves.
The Geats have the victory but it is not without cost. Brave Waebheard found himself isolated from the rest of the shield wall and was dragged by the brim-lichs, kicking and screaming aboard their ship. He was upon it when it sank below the waves. Of those who jumped overboard in panic, Hild is found shivering more with cold than fear clinging to the steering board but of Wighere there is no sign.
In the Clear Light of Day
Dawn finds the crew in a sombre mood. Waebheard had been a cheerful, popular lad and as it turned out, uncommonly brave. His fate was a terrible one. The thought of breaking the news to his uncle had Thegn Osgar chewing his moustaches. Wighere was a Saeberhting gebur of no great weapon-skill but had proved himself a pleasant, hardworking crewman. Moreover, many of the crew clearly felt shame that they had failed to prove their mettle in the face of the brim-lichs. Ironically this group included all the previous day’s recipients of byrnies, all of whom were frozen to the spot by that first wash of fear. Grimcytel actually offered to return his to Lytelman and Leofdag nodded at this and did the same. One-Foot did not go quite so far but looked shame-faced. Not even the occasional glint of gold and heavily tarnished silver found as they cleared the putrid flesh from the deck could raise the spirits of the crew.
Immediately after the fight Tohrwulf had earned himself a slap and some harsh words from Alefrith for the liberties he was forced to take with her body in subduing her. However, in the light of day she shyly offered up a shamefaced and blushing apology to the handsome West Geat. Not even this unusual show of humility from the Raedwalding ice-maiden raised the sort of ribald joshing that it would have attracted the previous day – another indicator of the malaise that all felt.
Hrothgar came to himself with the dawn and was surrounded by comrades congratulating him for his deeds the previous night but demanding to know what had happened to him. For his part he had little in the way of answers and was indeed hazy about events. Leofdag was heard to observe that Helruning was said to be a Godgift of Woden and gave powers over the Dead. He thought that Hrothgar invoked one of the names of Woden – Lord of the Undead – in his final shout.
Today the ship was taking the planned south-westerly course towards the coast of Eowland, more or less running before the wind. Once more, Wistan was hoist to the mast so that he could see the coast and relay what he discerned to Ruric below. However there was none of the levity that the same manoeuvre provoked the previous day – the more so as the crew realised that it would no longer be Waebheard’s duty to shin up the mast and assist the Aetheling should he get into difficulties.
Eventually Thegn Osgar decided he could no longer thole all this glumness. He jumps up upon the stern, gripping the stern-post for balance and surveys them with a withering look.
“Now just stow that nonsense! Listen. Ever been bilked at Tafl by a cunning cheat? I know I have. I didn’t go wailing off proclaiming myself no fit warrior. Some of us got overpowered by cheating, sorcery, by powers of dark – that’s all. It can happen. Yes, we have lost two of our mates and that is bad. Very bad. But look around. Is this an empty shell we stand on, like the Spearhafoc? No – the Black Pig is here and swims as well as she ever did, manned by the living. We WON. Now we know that we have weapons, things of power, that the sea-wights have no answer to. It was they who fled, their leader run through and through. Were we taken by surprise? No – Hrothgar and his Woden-gift kept us from being taken unawares. So let us mourn our losses, but I won’t hear any man say we are beaten. And look, we have gold from the encounter,” he brandishes a gold armring, a full mark in weight that was found on a lopped arm. “Aye and silver too. We will see that Wighere and Waebheard’s gear is put safe for their kin. Now let us wave down the Hafoc, I must break the news to Hwaetman as best I can. and then fellows, we have some witches to kill.”
He bids Wistan at the masthead signal the Spearhafoc to draw near. Out of curiosity the Blue Fish glides closer and the Osprey too, oars out, despite the fair winds. The Spearhafoc draws alongside while the other two maintain close station as the tale of the night’s events are relayed. There are tears from Hwaetman at the wyrd of his sister’s son (even though Osgar spares him the full detail). Saefrith too weeps for Wighere, who he has known since childhood, his sorrow only slightly allayed by his new mail byrnie. As the bundled armour, and the effects of the two lost men, are passed across to the Spearhafoc there is a new cry from the masthead.
The Eowland coast line is now in full view for Wistan and his far-sighted eyes. From his description of those features he can discern of the shoreline, Ruric believes them to be more or less where they had planned. However, what causes Wistan to cry out with such urgency is the sudden realisation that there is a fleet of ships strung out over many miles along the coast. Small, sleek craft for the most part, they were making their way northwards up the coast under oars, in the teeth of a brisk northerly. With sails down they were difficult to make-out, even for Wistan. It was unlikely that they would be unaware of the Black Pig and her allies for long, if they were not already spotted – though none had yet changed course to meet them. Lytelman called a speedy conference of the Brimwisas and Steormen of the four ships clustered around the Black Pig along with his own counsellors to decide the best course of action.