Fire & Steel Read Free Page A

be in big trouble.” He smiled again. “The tides and currents are treacherous there and I would feel rather foolish stranded on a sandbank as my enemies came to finish me off!”
    As Sæward led Anwyl aft, the last of the British warriors came aboard. Eofer and Cerdic exchanged a look as they settled themselves into the area which had been prepared for them. “That's it,” Cerdic smiled as the last of his men stacked their shields and spears amidships. “I am keen to be away while this wind holds. If you leave now we should exit the bay before the tide turns.”
    Bassa and Beornwulf, the youth who formed the permanent crew on Eofer's own ship, Fælcen, were within earshot and a quick nod from their eorle sent them scurrying ashore to release the bowline from the mooring post there. The action was mirrored on the other two English ships as the crews came alive and moved to their stations. As the boys leapt back aboard and the ships moved away from the land, the crews waited patiently until there was enough sea room to slip the oars into tholepins. Sæward caught his eye as the ships slid apart and Eofer nodded. Filling his lungs with the cool morning air the ship master cried out time as the rowers curled their backs and the oars swept the surface. Slowly the Sæ Wulf gathered way as the men settled into their rhythm and the other ships took station to either side.
    Eofer cast a look back at the shore as the vessel gathered speed. A cloud of gulls dipped in their wake as the ships pulled clear of the land, the dark headed birds searching out the fish guts and smaller fry which they associated with men and ships. On land the white line of grins split the faces of several fishermen as one of their number chased a shrieking woman around a pile of woven fish traps. It was not quite the rapturous send off he had imagined that Cerdic strongarm, the saviour of Belgic Britain would have had, but then the Welsh were Christians and it did sometimes seem that the religion frowned upon unnecessary displays of emotion. Eofer's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt as he contemplated the summer ahead. One way or another, he doubted that the blade would sleep in its scabbard until the harvest was gathered safely in.
     
    The waves slapped noisily against the hulls of the ships as they wallowed in the swell, and the last of the ropes which bound them together were lashed down. Low to the South the moon was full, and ships and sea alike were bathed in a silver sheen. As the temperature began to tumble and the men huddled into their cloaks and waited for their food, Cerdic made his way aft. Eofer had watched the British magister as the ships had cut their way north across a sea as green as any meadow. Alone among his men, the man had barely cast a look towards the ragged coast of Bro Gwereg as it slipped astern, the ramparts of dark rock which turned their face to the sea seemingly holding little attachment to his affections. To a man the Britons had cut their hair short, immediately marking them apart from the Englishmen who surrounded them. Although their garments were of the best quality they were noticeably less flamboyant than those of their hosts, the muted browns, greens and blues brightened only by the red cloak which hung at every man's shoulder and the enamelled broach which held it in place. Their leader was dressed in similar fashion to his men, and Cerdic flashed Eofer a smile as he gained the steering platform and hopped up at his side.
    “We are making good progress,” he said. “This time tomorrow we shall be ashore?”
    It was more a question than a statement of fact, and Cerdic glanced towards Anwyl seeking confirmation. His ship master nodded in agreement. “If this wind blows steadily we should drift down on Afen mouth around dusk, lord,” the man replied.
    “Let us hope that the Durotrige and our new Jutish friends are safely at their ale before we appear then.”
    Cerdic noticed the look of surprise which