by M J Porter
I sigh and then smirk at Rudolf.
“Bastard,” I mutter at him, but I’m striding away, keen to find Pybba and have him know my decision.
I find him, as I suspected, sitting by the campfire set amongst where my men are sleeping that night. He’s alone, and I suspect that he finds it challenging to be around people who grieve for lost children when he’s still not reconciled to losing his hand.
“Yes,” Pybba speaks clearly above the rustle of the horses in their temporary picket and the rush of the wind over the crops growing nearby.
“Yes what?” I ask, crossing my legs and bending them so that I sit beside him.
“Yes, I’ll stay here with Rudolf.”
“How did you know?”
“I’m not blind, just wounded. I can see your thoughts as clearly as if you’d written them in stones for me to see.”
“Good, Rudolf said he’d only stay if you agreed to it. He must have suspected you would be less easy to convince.”
“No, I imagine he hoped I would be. I don’t wish to ride into a heated battle. Not yet. In a week or two, when I’ve worked out the best stances, then yes, I would object to being left behind. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find the ealdorman, and I’m going to kill the Raiders.”
“As always, small expectations,” Pybba’s voice is rich with sarcasm, but I detect the flicker of respect behind it.
“The fuckers,” I complain, and he nods, and together, we stare into the heart of the fire, trying to un-see all that we’ve witnessed that day.
Chapter 11
I don’t direct the men to find the Foss Way, but rather hunt for the River Avon that will lead us to Warwick. The Foss Way is further to the east. It seems ridiculous to seek it out when I know Raiders are using it.
There have been surprisingly few complaints about my new destination. While none of the wounded warriors from the day before has succumbed to their wounds in the night, I worry it’ll happen in our absence.
Rudolf bid me farewell, a furious expression on his young face while Pybba was smiling broadly. I imagine the two will be allies again by the time I return. Lady Eadburh watched us leave, a pensive expression on her old face, as she leaned against one of the women who aid her.
Mercia is in turmoil, but I imagine it’s nothing she’s not seen before.
I ride with my mind filled with the knowledge that another battle will come soon, and then perhaps another three or four. I need to kill the warriors who hunt me, and only then can I focus on Repton. But I also need to know what’s happening in Repton before I kill all the warriors. I feel unsettled and yet resolved.
I’ve always defended Mercia. I might lead a small force of warriors, but we’ve proven effective so far. Far more effective than the Raiders and that’s what matters.
The River Avon, when we find it, flows quickly, unlike the Severn and I wish I’d been able to have boats here to take us toward Warwick. I would have liked to arrive with rested horses and warriors. Ever since we left Gloucester to fight the first party of Raiders, the majority of my men have done nothing but ride, fight, eat and sleep where they can. It’s exhausting. And we’re far from done.
Edmund, as always rides at my side. Icel is away in front, with Goda, scouting, while Hereman and Ælfgar ride to the rear. I consider that Icel and Edmund have resolved their difficulties with each other, but I’m more pragmatic than that. I think they’ve just decided to ignore the problem and get on with doing whatever they think they should do.
As long as I don’t have to chastise them like small children, I’m content.
“Riders,” the cry echoes itself along the line of men from Goda in front. I peer into the distance. With the river to our right, we’re at both an advantage and a disadvantage. What we don’t yet know is if they’re enemy or ally. All the same, I prepare for what’s coming next.
The crash of iron on wood is not long in reaching my ears, and I know it must be the enemy.
“Leave the horses,” I instruct, already leaping from Haden and tying up the harness and stirrups high on the saddle to enable him to flee if he needs to. His intelligent eyes watch me, and when I rub my hand along his nose, he reaches out and licks me.
“Get away with you,” I instruct him, a thwack to his rump, and he ambles away to the riverbank, keen to eat. The damn horse is always eating.
Nearly twenty horses take up more room than I’d like, especially when none of the damn fuckers does what I want them to do.
Hereman and Ælfgar quickly join us.
“Stay together,” I instruct my warriors who aren’t yet caught up in the fighting in front. Goda and Icel don’t hold off the advancing enemy alone, but I can see that’s what they’re trying to do, from the back of their mounts.
“How many?” I call.
“Twenty five.”
“Not bad,” I turn to meet Edmund’s eyes. He almost grins at me, but the battle joy is absent from his face, and I know he’ll be no good to me. Not yet.
“Hereman, with me,” I order instead.
“Fucker,” Hereman complains as he shoulders his way past his immobile brother. “Fucker,” he mutters again, but with less force.
“Shield wall,” I instruct my warriors. “But we’ll need to let our men through, so be ready for them.”
The shield wall is only two men deep, but it’ll be enough, I’m sure of it, as long as the enemy abandon their horses. I’m gambling that they will. I’m hopeful that men who can inflict such wounds as I’ve seen on Ealdorman Ælhun’s men will know their limits. Fighting on horseback is one of those limits.
With Hereman to my left and Ælfgar to my right, Lyfing and Hereberht behind me, we begin to advance forward. My shield is lowered so that I can see where Goda and Icel battle from their saddles. The riverbank makes a sharp drop to the right, making it difficult for the enemy to make their way around the two horses. For all that, I think some of the warriors are trying it.
“Watch the drop,” I instruct, a whisper passed both ways down the shield wall, and also to those behind.
“Now,” I bellow, and Hereman and I step aside, Lyfing and Hereberht mirroring the action so that Goda and Icel can thrust their horse through the shield wall. I flick a glance at Icel. His beard is flecked with blood and spit, but he seems whole. Goda as well.
In their wake, I close the shield wall and raise my shield, waiting for the first impact.
The enemy has discarded the horses they’ve stolen, and they rush at my defence.
“Brace,” I instruct loudly, wanting my voice to carry. Others take up the chant. The shield wall seems to ripple as every man reaffirms his grip and prepares for the onslaught of warriors ready to risk it all by flinging themselves against the impregnable wood.
The blow, when it comes, is hard enough to jar my teeth, but I hold firm, pressing my shoulder into the shield with the left side of my body.
“Fuck,” Hereman complains to the side of me. It’s as though a hundred men try to topple us. The weight is extreme, and then I feel the reaching attack begin.
The shields, as tightly packed as they are, still allow for small gaps. In to them, spears and seaxs are thrust.
“Hold,” I bellow, my breath heaving. I’ve not even taken a blow yet, but it feels as though I’ve been fighting all morning. I’d blame the heat or the enemy, but I know it’s just fatigue.
“Hold,” I roar once more when I feel the shield wall falter a step.
“Hold,” if I could make men follow my instructions just by the force of my words, then the enemy would be tipped in the river by now.
And that gives me an idea. The enemy is determined to beat us, their weapons loud on the wood of our shields, and it seems as though they might be winning, for none of us have yet taken a killing blow. But, they’re focus is only on that.
“Lyfing,” I breathe his name, the strain evident in my voice, but he hears me all the same.
“Have the left-hand side of the s
hield wall move forward. I want to push them into the river.”
Lyfing pauses only for a moment before I feel the hole of his absence behind me. If I’m struggling as much as I am, then I worry for the rest of my men.
We all have skills and weaknesses. But I’m the strongest of them all. Perhaps apart from Icel, and even Icel is getting slower.
To begin with, I don’t notice the change in pressure. My shoulder is locked in place, my other hand busy knocking away probing weapons and avoiding those that I can’t force back. But then, I realise that Hereman and the men are doing as I asked as a small crack opens up between Ælfgar and me.
“Careful,” I warn Ælfgar, and he immediately moves to fill the gap.
“Push,” I bellow, “fucking push.” And now everyone is pushing, even my men closest to the river. We rode fully armed and ready for battle, and the river beneath us is fast-flowing and deep. If we can just get some of the enemy to fall in, I’m sure the rest will suddenly become much easier to kill.
Sweat beads my forehead, dripping into my mouth, turning my already dry lips even drier, but I can feel the motion of the shield wall now.
And the enemy seems oblivious. Whoever commands them does so in Danish, and although I understand much of the language, the accent is so strong that I’m struggling to hear everything they instruct. But, whatever it is, there’s no hint of capitulation in them.
The first strangled cry of a warrior is followed by a heavy splash. I grimace, pushing, even more, wishing I could afford to discard my seax and use both of my shoulders to complete the manoeuvre.
The second and third splashes are equally loud, and I can hear the wet cries of men as water replaces the air they need to live. But it’s only three warriors, and already, the shield wall, finally alert to my intentions, is trying to force its way back into the original position.
“Hold,” I instruct, the single word an effort to force out passed my heaving chest and parched throat.
A blade threatens to slice my chin, the warrior on the other side of the shield less concerned with finding a watery death than those closer to the riverbank. I duck my head, keen to have the obstruction removed, but it’s in an awkward place, and I can’t lift my seax to counter the reach of the blade. If the shield wall continues to turn toward the river as it currently is, the weapon will strike me sooner or later.
But Hereberht has seen my quandary, and with an economy of movement that I admire, he lifts the shield he holds clear from above my head, and with his other hand, slices cleanly through the man’s wrist.
The blade falls, and so does the twitching hand.
The scream of pain reaches my ears, and I spare a thought for Pybba before I follow the rest of my warriors, taking small steps so that I almost face the river now. The handless warrior disappears beneath my feet, Hereberht stabbing down. I doubt the warrior deserved such a clean and straightforward death, but sooner that than him screaming and getting entangled in my feet.
More splashes reach my ears, more frantic cries for help. Above it all, I can hear a heated debate between at least two of the Danish warriors that they need to escape the clutches of the shield wall.
I don’t grin, not yet. Not until every man is dead, is it time to celebrate. And even then, any celebration will be muted. There are more Raiders out there to kill yet.
My shield wall falters to a stop, the shrieks coming from my own warriors, as all resistance suddenly melts away. The men are pulling Wulfred, closest to the riverbank of all, back to the other side of him as he falters, threatening to follow our enemy to a watery death.
I’m panting heavily. This hasn’t so much been a battle as a shove. Each step has stolen my strength, and I gasp, my warriors doing the same.
Icel joins me, still mounted, his seax flashing darkly, his horse’s coat stained stark brown.
“Is he wounded?”
Icel tears his eyes away from the sight of the men floundering in the river.
“No. Well, no, I don’t think so,” but immediately Icel is jumping to the ground, soft words on his lips, as he runs his hand over his horse’s right shoulder.
“What shall we do with them?” It’s Edmund who asks the question. I’d not truly realised how deep the river was. At least ten of the enemy have already disappeared from sight. But a handful is struggling to the riverbank, desperate to escape a watery death. Some of them have used their intelligence and have opted for the far riverbank. But five of them are trying to make their way back to dry land in front of my warriors.
I sigh heavily. These men are strong warriors if they’re able to haul themselves free from the river even while wearing all of their battle equipment, but that means that I can’t allow any of them to live. Even if I felt any compulsion to do so.
“They must all die,” I state, and five pairs of eyes meet mine. That, at least, they understand.
“My Lord, my Jarl, will pay for my return.” The voice speaks English well, and with a start, I realise the boy who addresses me is no older than Rudolf.
“I’ve no interest in money,” I state flatly, while my warriors continue to taunt the dying.
“Bring me a spear,” I demand, determined to skewer the fucker who’s trying to escape up the other side of the bank. There’s no bridge close by, and so I must try and kill him now, or risk allowing one of the Raiders to live.
“My Lord, Jarl Anwend is my father, and I’m his only surviving child.”
“Then he should have thought of that sooner, as should you,” I comment, but with the spear in my hand, I’m sighting the other warrior. He lies gasping, helm lost in the flood of the river, on his back. There’s no celebration from him that he’s evaded death, but still, I can’t allow him to live, no matter how easy the kill.
I take five steps back, my warriors clearing a path for me, and then I run forward, thrusting the spear high, hoping it will fall true.
Edmund, Icel and Lyfing have chosen to carry out my instructions regarding the survivors below me, but, as the spear seems to slip into the other man’s body, I reconsider.
“Leave the boy,” I bellow, watching the body of my victim buckle around the spear, as though I’ve skewered a fish, and then it flops silent.
“I would speak with him,” I confirm, turning my eyes back to those below me. The four men are dead, but Edmund has held out his hand to aid the survivor. I’ve been reminded of the tactic I wished to employ the first time I encountered the enemy.
My warriors move quickly to retrieve what they can from the trackway. The enemy might have fallen in the fast current, but along the way, they lost equipment, and it’s worthwhile claiming.
“Tell me about your father,” I demand from the youth. “And what’s your name?”
“My father is Jarl Anwend, and my name is also Anwend.” The boy speaks well for all he’s shivering violently and his teeth chatter noisily together. Only the fact that he reminds me so much of Rudolf has stayed my hand. All the other warriors claiming to be the sons of the Raiders have died at my hand. This boy though is different.
“Tell me, what’s happening in Repton.”
Edmund hands me a cloak, and I wrap it around the boy’s shoulders and in the same movement, grip his hands tightly in front of his chest and then tie them tightly together using a piece of hemp rope.
Anwend eyes me angrily and also gratefully from beneath heavy eyebrows, he still needs to grow into. I’m reminded of how young he is, for all I want to hate him, just because of who his father is.
“Who are you?” he asks, but I shake my head.
“I’m not a prisoner. Talk, or I might find it no use to keep you alive.”
“My father, Jarl Anwend, holds Repton with the aid of three other jarls, Halfdan, Guthrum and Oscetel.”
“And where is King Burgred?” the lad tries not to smirk at the mention of Mercia’s king, but he doesn’t quite manage it, and so I cuff the side of his head. I don’t make him bleed, but it does startle a trickle of blood from an earlie
r wound.
Anwend is whiter than death, and I might not have done him a great favour in having him plucked from the river.
“He’s fled Mercia in exchange for his life.” It relieves me to extract the same response from every Raider I speak to.
“And what does our father plan to do to Mercia now?”
“The jarls seek a Lord Coelwulf. King Burgred said he would be the only man capable of holding Mercia against them. King Burgred said it with a sneer.”
“So you search for this Lord Coelwulf?”
“Yes, I do, or rather I did. Perhaps not anymore.” The use of ‘perhaps’ almost has me slapping him again, but I restrain my impulse.
“And where will you find Lord Coelwulf?”
“Some place called Gloucester.”
“And what, they sent your force to track him down?”
The lad shakes his head or seems to try to, it’s difficult to tell with all the shivering.
“No, each jarl has sent fifty warriors. Whoever finds him, dead or alive, can have his lands. But because of that prize, others have banded together as well.”
“So did you lead Jarl Anwend’s men?”
“I did, well, I didn’t really. He nominated Ragnar to follow my instructions, but really, I followed Ragnar’s.” The fury is impossible to miss. Perhaps Ragnar should be pleased he’s dead.
“Is this all of your force?” I point to the river, where a few items still cling to the surface of the water, the odd piece of clothing and for some reason, a sword. It should have sunk long ago, and only the shields should have floated.
“No, but the rest are dead. We met another group of Mercians two days ago. They didn’t fight the way you did. Most of them were killed, but so were some of my force.”
“So, Repton. What do they plan to do from there?”
Anwend glares at me, his eyes showing his confusion.
“I. I. Why do you want to know? Who are you?”
The question is plaintive, but I ignore it.
“I would know what to do with you? Should I kill you now that you’ve spilt all the information you know, or let you live, only so you can fight the Mercians another day.”
