The crash of the shield walls, the sudden noise, the hammering of wood and steel and men screaming their war cries, and I thrust Wasp-Sting into the gap between two shields and the man behind me had hooked the enemy’s shield with his axe and was tugging, and the man was struggling to pull his spear back as I rammed the seax up into his ribs. I felt it burst through the links of his mail, slice through the leather beneath to grate on bone. I twisted the blade and tugged her back as a sword struck my shield a ringing blow. Finan was protecting my right, his own seax stabbing. My opponent let go of his spear, it was far too long a weapon for the shield wall. It was meant to break open another wall and was almost useless in defence. He drew his seax, but before the blade had left the scabbard I raked Wasp-Sting across his face that was inked with ravens. She left an open wound spilling blood that blinded him and turned his short beard red. Another stab, this to his throat and he was down and the man in the rank behind him lunged over the falling body with a sword thrust that turned my shield and sliced into my son’s arm. I almost tripped on the fallen man, who still tried to stab up with his seax.
‘Kill him!’ I shouted to the man behind me and rammed my shield at the swordsman, who snarled as he tried to lunge with the blade again, and my shield slammed into his body and I stabbed Wasp-Sting down to open his thigh from groin to knee. A blade crashed against my helmet. An axe swung overhead and I ducked down fast, raising the shield, and the axe split the iron rim, shattered willow, and tilted the shield over my head, but I could see the bleeding thigh and I stabbed again, upwards this time in the wicked blow that made the man shriek and took him from the fight. Finan ripped the axeman’s cheek away from his jaw with his seax and stabbed again, aiming for the eyes. Gerbruht, behind me, seized the axe and turned it against the enemy. He thought, because I was crouching, that I was wounded, and he bellowed in anger as he pushed past me and swung the huge weapon with all the force of his huge strength. A sword pierced his upper chest, but slid upwards as his axe cut a helmet and a skull in two, and there was a mist of blood as a spatter of brains slapped on my helmet. I stood, covering Gerbruht with my shield. My son was heaving forward on my left, stamping his foot on an enemy’s face. We had taken down Ragnall’s two front ranks and the men behind were stepping back, trying to escape our blood-painted shields, our wet blades, our snarling love of slaughter.
And I heard another clash and heard shouting and though I could not see what happened I felt the shudder from my left and knew that other men had joined the fight. ‘For the whore!’ I shouted. ‘For the whore!’
That was a mad shout! But now the battle-joy had come, the song of slaughter. Folcbald had arrived to the left of my son, and he was as strong as Gerbruht and armed with a short-handled axe that had a massive head, and he was hooking down enemy shields so my son could lunge over them. A spear slid beneath my shield to strike against the iron strips in my boot. I stamped on the blade, rammed Wasp-Sting between two shields, felt her bite. I was keening a wordless song. Finan was using his seax to give short fast lunges between shields, raking his enemies’ forearms with the blade till their weapons dropped, when he would slice the blade up into their ribcage. Folcbald had abandoned his shattered shield and was hacking with the axe, bellowing a Frisian challenge, smashing the heavy blade through helmets and skulls, making a pile of blood-spattered enemy dead and shouting at men to come and be killed. Somewhere ahead, not far, I could see Ragnall’s banner. I shouted for him. ‘Ragnall! You bastard! Ragnall! You shrivelled piece of shit! Come and die, you bastard! For the whore!’
Oh the madness of battle! We fear it, we celebrate it, the poets sing of it, and when it fills the blood like fire it is a real madness. It is joy! All the terror is swept away, a man feels he could live for ever, he sees the enemy retreating, knows he himself is invincible, that even the gods would shrink from his blade and his bloodied shield. And I was still keening that mad song, the battle song of slaughter, the sound that blotted out the screams of dying men and the crying of the wounded. It is fear, of course, that feeds the battle madness, the release of fear into savagery. You win in the shield wall by being more savage than your enemy, by turning his savagery back into fear.
I wanted to kill Ragnall, but I could not see him. All I could see were shield rims, bearded faces, blades, men snarling, a man spitting teeth from a mouth filled with blood, a boy screaming for his mother, another weeping on the ground and shaking. A wounded man groaned and turned over on the grass, and I thought he was trying to lift a seax to stab me and I slid Wasp-Sting down into his throat and the jet of blood struck warm on my face. I ground the blade downwards, cursing the man, then ripped the blade free as I saw a short man come from my right. I back-handed the blade, striking the man, who sank down and shrieked, ‘Father!’ It was a boy, not a man. ‘Father!’ That second call was my son, pulling me backwards. The weeping and shaking boy was crying hysterically, gasping for breath, his face laced with blood. I had put him on the ground. I had not known. I had just seen him coming from my right and struck at him, but he could not have been more than nine years old, maybe ten, and I had half severed his left arm. ‘It’s over,’ my son said, holding my sword arm, ‘it’s over.’
It was not quite over. Men still clashed shield against shield, the blades still hacked and lunged, but Ragnall’s own men had turned on him. The Irish had joined the fight, but on our side. They were keening their battle sound, a high-pitched scream as they savaged Ragnall’s remaining warriors. The men whose wives we had released had also turned against Ragnall and, of his thousand men, only a few were left, maybe two hundred or so, but they were surrounded.
‘Enough!’ Sigtryggr shouted. ‘Enough!’ He had found a horse from somewhere and hauled himself into the saddle. He carried his bloodied sword as he shouted at the men struggling to kill his brother. ‘Enough! Let them live!’ His brother was in the centre of the men who still fought for him, the outnumbered and encircled men who now lowered their weapons as the battle died.
‘Look after that boy,’ I told my son. The boy was crouching over his dead father, weeping hysterically. That had been me, I thought, at Eoferwic, how many years ago? I looked at Finan. ‘How old are we?’ I asked.
‘Too old, lord.’ There was blood on his face. His beard was grey, trickling blood.
‘Are you hurt?’ I asked, and he shook his head. He still wore his brother’s helmet with its golden circlet that had been dented by a sword blow. ‘Are you going home?’ I asked him.
‘Home?’ he was puzzled by my question.
‘To Ireland,’ I said. I looked at the circlet, ‘King Finan.’
He smiled. ‘I am home, lord.’
‘And your brother?’
Finan shrugged. ‘He’ll have to live with the shame of this day for ever. He’s finished. Besides,’ he made the sign of the cross, ‘a man shouldn’t kill his own brother.’
Sigtryggr killed his own brother. He offered life to the men who would surrender, and afterwards, as those men deserted Ragnall, Sigtryggr fought him. It was a fair fight. I did not watch, but afterwards Sigtryggr had a sword slash on one hip and a broken rib. ‘He could fight,’ he said happily, ‘but I fought better.’
I looked at the men in the pasture. Hundreds of men. ‘They’re all yours now,’ I said.
‘Mine,’ he agreed.
‘You should return to Eoferwic,’ I told him. ‘Give away land, but make sure you have sufficient men to guard the city walls. Four men for every five paces. Some of those men can be butchers, bakers, leather-workers, labourers, but salt them with your warriors. And capture Dunholm.’
‘I will.’ He looked at me, grinned, and we embraced. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘For making your daughter a queen.’
I took my men away next morning. We had lost sixteen in the battle, only sixteen, though another forty were too wounded to move. I embraced my daughter, then bowed to her because she was indeed a queen. Sigtryggr tried to give me his gr
eat gold chain, but I refused it. ‘I have enough gold,’ I told him, ‘and you are now the gold-giver. Be generous.’
And we rode away.
I met Æthelflaed six days later. We met in the Great Hall of Ceaster. Cynlæf was there, as were Merewalh, Osferth, and young Prince Æthelstan. The warriors of Mercia were there too, the men who had not pursued Ragnall north of Ledecestre. Ceolnoth and Ceolberht stood among their fellow priests. My other son, Father Oswald, was also there, and he stood protectively close to Bishop Leofstan’s widow, Sister Gomer, the Mus. She smiled at me, but the smile vanished when I glared at her.
I had not cleaned my mail. Rain had washed most of the blood away, but the blade-torn gaps in the rings were still there and the leather beneath was stained with blood. My helmet had a gash in one side from an axe blow that I had hardly felt in the heat of battle, though now my head still throbbed with a dull pain. I stalked into the hall with Uhtred, my son, with Finan, and with Rorik. That was the boy’s name, the boy I had wounded in battle, and he carried the same name as Ragnar’s son, my boyhood friend. This Rorik’s arm was healing, indeed was healed well enough for him to hold a big bronze casket that had pictures of saints around its sides and a depiction of Christ in glory on its lid. He was a good boy, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a strong mischievous face. He had never known his mother and I had killed his father. ‘This is Rorik,’ I introduced him to Æthelflaed and the company, ‘and he is as a son to me.’ I touched the golden hammer amulet around Rorik’s neck. The amulet had belonged to his father, as did the sword that hung, far too big, at his skinny waist. ‘Rorik,’ I went on, ‘is what you call a pagan, and he will stay a pagan.’ I looked at the priests, and only Father Oswald met my eye. He nodded.
‘I have a daughter,’ I said, looking back to Æthelflaed who sat in the chair that passed for a throne in Ceaster, ‘and she is now queen of Northumbria. Her husband is king. He has sworn not to attack Mercia. He will also cede to you some Mercian land that is presently under Danish rule as a gesture of his friendship, and he will make a treaty with you.’
‘Thank you, Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelflaed said. Her face was unreadable, but she met my gaze and held it for a moment before looking at the boy beside me. ‘And welcome, Rorik.’
‘It seemed best, my lady,’ I said, ‘to put a friendly pagan on Northumbria’s throne because it seems the men of Mercia are too cowardly to enter that country,’ I was looking at Cynlæf, ‘even to pursue their enemies.’
Cynlæf bridled. ‘I …’ he began, then faltered.
‘You what?’ I challenged him.
He looked to Æthelflaed for help, but she offered none. ‘I was advised,’ he finally said weakly.
‘By a priest?’ I asked, looking at Ceolnoth.
‘We were commanded not to enter Northumbria!’ Cynlæf protested.
‘You will learn from the Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelflaed said, still looking at me even though she spoke to Cynlæf, ‘that there are times when you disobey orders.’ She turned to him, and her voice was icy. ‘You made the wrong decision.’
‘But it’s of no consequence,’ I said, looking at Father Ceolnoth, ‘because Thor and Woden answered my prayers.’
Æthelflaed gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘You will eat with us tonight, Lord Uhtred?’
‘And leave tomorrow,’ I said, ‘with my men and their families.’ I looked to the side of the hall where Eadith stood among the shadows. ‘And with you too,’ I said, and she nodded.
‘Tomorrow! You’re leaving?’ Æthelflaed asked, surprised and indignant.
‘By your leave, lady, yes.’
‘To go where?’
‘To go north, my lady, north.’
‘North?’ she frowned.
‘But before I leave,’ I said, ‘I have a gift for you.’
‘Where in the north?’
‘I have business in the north, lady,’ I said, then touched Rorik’s shoulder. ‘Go, boy,’ I said, ‘lay it at her feet.’
The boy carried the heavy bronze casket around the hearth, then knelt and dropped his burden with a clang at the foot of Æthelflaed’s throne. He backed away to my side, the big sword dragging through the stale rushes on the hall floor. ‘I planned to give you Eoferwic, my lady,’ I told her, ‘but I gave that city to Sigtryggr instead. That gift is in its place.’
She knew what was in the box even before it was opened, but she snapped her fingers and a servant hurried from the shadows, knelt, and opened the heavy lid. Men craned to see what was inside and I heard some of the priests hiss with distaste, but Æthelflaed just smiled. Ragnall’s bloody head grimaced at her from the casket. ‘Thank you, Lord Uhtred,’ she said calmly, ‘the gift is most generous.’
‘And what you wanted,’ I said.
‘It is.’
‘Then with your permission, lady,’ I bowed, ‘my work is done and I would rest.’
She nodded. I beckoned to Eadith and walked to the hall’s great doors. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed called, and I turned. ‘What business in the north?’ she asked.
I hesitated, then told her the truth. ‘I am the Lord of Bebbanburg, lady.’
And I am. I have ancient parchments that say that Uhtred, son of Uhtred, is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea. They are wave-beaten lands, wild beneath the wind-driven sky, and they were stolen from me.
I had business in the north.
Historical Note
There was, briefly, a Bishopric of Chester in the eleventh century, but the see proper was not established until 1541, so Leofstan, like his diocese, is entirely fictional. Indeed I confess that much of Warriors of the Storm is fictional, a tale woven onto a deep background of truth.
The underlying story of all Uhtred’s novels is the tale of England’s making, and perhaps the most remarkable thing about that story is how little it is known. When Uhtred’s saga began, back before the reign of Alfred the Great, there was no such place as England or, as it came to be called, Englaland. Ever since the Romans left in the early fifth century AD, Britain had been split into many small kingdoms. By the time of Alfred the land that would become England was divided into four; Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia, and Northumbria. The Danes had captured East Anglia and Northumbria, and held most of northern Mercia. At one point it looked as if the Danes would overwhelm Wessex too, and it was Alfred’s great achievement to save that last Saxon kingdom from their domination. The story of the subsequent years is how the English gradually reclaimed their land, working gradually northwards from Wessex in the south. Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, was the ruler of Mercia, and she was to liberate much of the northern midlands from Danish rule. It was under Æthelflaed’s rule that Ceaster, Chester, was brought back under Saxon control, and she built burhs at both Brunanburh and at Eads Byrig, though the latter was occupied only briefly.
The fortresses at Ceaster, Brunanburh, and Eads Byrig did more than defend Mercia against incursions from Danish-ruled Northumbria. The Norsemen had occupied much of Ireland’s eastern coast, and, in the early years of the tenth century, they were under severe pressure from the Irish kings. Many abandoned their holdings in Ireland and looked for land in Britain, and Æthelflaed’s forts guarded the rivers against their invasion. They landed further north, mostly in Cumbria, and Sigtryggr was one of them. He did indeed, become king in Eoferwic.
Readers who, like me, endured far too many tedious hours in Sunday School might recall that Gomer was the prostitute that the prophet Hosea married. The tale of the two she-bears slaughtering the forty-two children at God’s command can be found in the Second Book of Kings, Chapter two.
The story of England’s making is blood-drenched. Eventually the Northmen (Danes and Norse) will intermarry with the Saxons, but so long as the two sides compete for ownership of the land then war will continue. Uhtred has marched from Wessex in the south to the northern borders of Mercia. He has further to go, so he will march again.
> Enjoyed Warriors of the Storm?
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Book One of The Last Kingdom
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About the Author
Bernard Cornwell was born in London, raised in Essex and worked for the BBC for eleven years before meeting Judy, his American wife. Denied an American work permit, he wrote a novel instead and has been writing ever since. He and Judy divide their time between Cape Cod and Charleston, South Carolina.
www.bernardcornwell.net
/bernard.cornwell
Also by Bernard Cornwell
The LAST KINGDOM Series (formerly The WARRIOR Chronicles)
The Last Kingdom
The Pale Horseman
The Lords of the North
Sword Song
The Burning Land
Death of Kings
The Pagan Lord
The Empty Throne
Azincourt
The GRAIL QUEST Series
Harlequin
Vagabond
Heretic
1356
Gallows Thief
Stonehenge
The Fort
The STARBUCK Chronicles
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