by M J Porter
“Perhaps,” Northman said, not prepared to speak the harsh truth to his friend. Not just yet.
Below, the sounds of battle faded away, and Northman watched as the other men who’d been relieved from the shield wall, began to drag wooden stakes into place. Leaping to his feet, he beckoned Olaf to aid him, and between them, they took one to where Oscetel was still in formation, although no one was currently attacking him.
“Move aside Oscetel, if it’s safe to do so,” Northman asked and after a moment of hesitation, Oscetel did as he commanded. He shielded the lads as they worked the spike into place, and then they ducked back inside the temporary safety of the shield wall.
“What will happen now?” Northman asked Oscetel but for once, Oscetel didn’t respond.
“Get some rest boy,” he growled, “it’s going to be a long afternoon and night, and you’ll have to stand your watch with the rest of them.”
Somehow, and he was never sure how Northman managed to snatch some rest while the remaining men protected their position atop the burial mound. He woke to a strange calm and the ending of the day, the sky streaked with purples and golds. Beside him, Olaf snored contentedly away.
He tried to stand but his legs groaned in agony, and he crashed back to floor. Oscetel opened his half-closed eyes to look at him.
“Stay where you are lad. There’s no need to fear. The enemy has stopped their attack for now. The draining of the light makes it impossible for them to see where we’re stood. No doubt it’ll be a quiet night and then tomorrow, we’ll resume the battle.
“How?” Northman asked. His brief sweep of those who remained showed that their forces were badly depleted. He wondered how many had run and how many had died.
“Ulfcytel is remaining tight-lipped so I can’t tell you.”
“Does he still live then?” Northman queried.
“Yes, and his rage at the deceit of Thurcetel is a living force as well. That man had better have left the lands of the English. Otherwise, Ulfcytel will hunt him down, and I think strike him down without any recourse to the king’s justice.”
“I don’t blame him,” Northman uttered, and Oscetel smiled at him.
“And what of Brithelm’s son, does he live?”
“Yes, he and all the others of Leofwine’s men have survived. They’re holding the defences for us.”
“Then I should relieve one of them, for I’ve rested.”
“You can, but later. You need to eat first. Once you get down there, you’ll be staying for the night. Give yourself a little time. It’s better to be thoroughly prepared than reckless.” Oscetel sounded amused and resigned at the same time.
‘Do you think we’ll die here?” Northman finally asked the question he’d been thinking ever since they started to retreat.
“Perhaps lad, I’m not sure. I hope that some agreement can be reached, and if not, we may yet sneak away at night. But we’ll have to wait and see what Ulfcytel demands of us. You fought extremely well,” he added and Northman, despite their predicament, was pleased with the praise.
“That Norse man, he was a monster of a man. He hacked down all who faced him and yet somehow, you finished him. How?”
Northman smirked then with joy at his first kill,
“He was left-handed. I used the same trick on him that he was using on everyone else, only, as you know, I can fight with both hands. I think it confused him.”
Oscetel laughed then, his face shining with joy and admiration,
“How did you work that out?”
“I looked at the injuries on the dead men.”
“Ah Northman, you truly are your father’s son. Most men see nothing but battle rage, and yet you’re there, carefully watching how your opponents fight. I can’t wait to tell your father, and of course Wulfstan.”
The thought of seeing his father filled him with joy. Oscetel was right. Leofwine would thrill to know how well he’d fought. And when Oscetel spoke, his thoughts weren’t concerned with their dire predicament. Surely that was a good sign. If he could see them meeting Leofwine again, then surely he thought they would live.
When the light fully drained from the sky, he took his place along the line of defence. Bright spots of light showed that the enemy was encamped not too far away, but they weren’t pressing the defences. Clearly, they didn’t want to have the corpses of the dead men as bedfellows that night.
A huge fire burnt for much of the night, the smell of burning flesh scorching his nostrils and turned his face into a grimace. Olaf joined him at some point, and they spoke quietly, reliving what they’d endured that day.
And then hasty conversations sprang up along the line of men, and Oscetel raced to the boys.
“We’re to sneak away during the night. Ulfcytel has commanded it. He and some of his men will stay and ensure the defences hold. An outrider has reached Ulfcytel from the combined forces of the atheling Athelstan and your father. They’re at Thetford now, and when the outrider finds them, they’ll spread out and protect out retreat. Ulfcytel wants to stay and treat once more with Thorkell, do what he can to prevent any more slaughter.”
“And you’re coming with us?” Northman asked, worried by the look on Oscetel’s face.
“Yes, I am, and my men. But Brithnoth, I think he’s decided to stay, and those with him as well.”
Northman glanced to where he imagined he sat.
“He wishes to avenge his father’s death, no matter what.”
“I know Northman, but these men, they weren’t even involved in that battle. I fear he has a desire to meet his maker. But come, say your goodbyes, gather your things. Ulfcytel wants us in the first group of men to leave. He feels it would be a stain on his honour if he failed to keep you safe after all you’ve done, and all your father’s done.”
Northman knew there was no point in arguing, and so, with a final glance back towards the dark field of battle, he scrambled back up the slope, as silently as he could.
A small group of men were gathering near the back of the mound. None spoke, but their eyes were haunted. Ulfcytel himself stood there, offering words of advice and praising the men for their efforts. The men might have thought they were sneaking away, but Ulfcytel wanted them to know that they went with his blessing.
Thetford itself lay within easy reach, provided they met no enemies, and Northman felt his confidence building. This was it. He was going to survive, despite the appalling odds. His first battle, while a success for him, was catastrophic for the English forces.
A quiet word of thanks from Ulfcytel and they were out, released onto the flat lands that would take them to Thetford. The night was silent, apart from the clatter of their feet and their weapons, and Northman concentrated only on finding his way through the night, where only a handful of stars glowed through the dense clouds. A good night to escape, cloaked in darkness as they were, but it made the actual implementing of their flight fraught with danger.
Time passed slowly, each loud breath a torment of not knowing who was hidden by the blackness of the night. Slowly and surely they crept closer to Thetford, and then, when the first faint wisps of a new day were lightening the sky, outriders found them, lead by Athelstan, and joyfully they mounted on fresh horses and raced back towards the walls of Thetford.
Once there, his father greeted him with a wide embrace, pride and joy shining from his face, but Northman was too exhausted to speak.
Chapter 26
AD1010 - Leofwine – Thetford
Horic had greeted him on his arrival, the news a little grim. Outriders had sighted the commencement of the battle, and the treachery of Thurcetel was already known. It was a losing battle before it had even half started, but Horic understood the remaining force was fighting well.
Fear engulfed Leofwine, and although he wanted to do nothing more than ride out and rescue his son, he knew he could do no such thing. His son wouldn’t ever forgive him if his father hauled him away from the shield wall.
Shaken by the fear tha
t coursed through his body, he sought sanctuary in the Church, where the local priest was offering comfort to the troubled souls of his ministry.
He took no particular notice of Leofwine, but as the day turned to evening, and Leofwine didn’t move, he came and sat beside him.
“My Lord,” the man said, “Your son is a credit to you, he’ll fare well in the battle.”
“My thanks, Priest,” Leofwine said, not raising his eyes from the splendour of the coloured glass window that dominated the tidy church. “As his father, I still worry, regardless.”
“As you should, but a little faith, and I’m sure he’ll be with you soon.”
“The battle doesn’t go well.”
“They rarely do,” the Priest commented matter-of-factly, “but there are always survivors.”
“Yes, there must be,” Leofwine admitted, “otherwise how would we fight another day?”
“Exactly my Lord. Now, I think our Lord has heard your prayers enough. I’d suggest you seek an update before you despair further.”
Feeling suitably chastised, and a little foolish for his fears, Leofwine stood on his stiff legs, Hammer at his side obedient as ever, and together they left the Church. Horic greeted him, his face grim and Leofwine faltered in his steady steps.
“My Lord,” Horic began, and Leofwine glanced at him furiously. Damn the man for turning to formality to mask the news he carried.
“Out with it Horic, quickly, tell me now.”
“Apologies Leofwine. They’ve retreated up a steep hill and hoped to hold out there until we can relieve them, or they can attempt an escape.”
“And the boys?”
“There’s no news. This came from one of the outriders. They feared to go much closer.”
Nodding as he absorbed just the facts, and banished his more fatherly concerns for the first time that day, he spoke.
“Has Athelstan arranged for a closer encounter?”
“Yes, on receipt of the news, Edmund and a select group of men rode out. They’ll attempt to communicate with Ulfcytel and find out what we should do for the best. It’s a great slaughter; I’m afraid, and not on the side of Thorkell.”
“Bloody Eadric,” Leofwine cursed, “I imagine his fyrd hasn’t been sighted?”
“No, no one has seen him since he left on Thursday morning.”
“Damn the man and damn the king for not keeping him where we could all keep an eye on him.”
“You know we all agree with you, but what will we do now?”
“We’ll make ready to lead our force to relieve the embattled men of Ulfcytel. But we’ll wait for Edmund to return. We shan’t act irrationally.”
Horic stopped where he stood then and looked at Leofwine,
“The boys will be fine, Leofwine, I feel it.”
“My thanks, Horic,” Leofwine said, struggling to control his emotions in the face of such dire news.
“I trained them,” Horic said, “since they could barely walk. They’ll be well.” And with that, they lapsed into silence, returning to Ulfcytel’s hall, where a strange hush of expectation infected everything.
Time passed slowly, and Leofwine wondered if he turned grey with worry as he waited. But then finally, Edmund arrived, his face flushed.
Athelstan and Leofwine rushed to his side, and he spoke quickly,
“He’s asking for us to cover their retreat. He’ll stay and attempt to make terms again.”
Relieved to know that they had a role to play, Athelstan and Leofwine quickly discussed their plans and implemented them. Their aim was to retrieve all the men who still lived. And Leofwine could only hope that it included his son and his friend’s son.
Chapter 27
AD1010 - Northman – The King’s Witan
Tempers were frayed, accusations flying from one side of the room to the other. Northman almost wanted to flinch away from the terrible repercussions of the battle at Ringmere but at the same time, he felt more outraged than any other, for he’d been there. He’d fought wide his father’s men in the shield wall. He’d seen men cut down before him, he’d killed to defend his land, and he’d been there when Eadric had purposefully deceived him and started the entire chain of events that had culminated at Ringmere.
It was he who’d tasked himself with keeping the king informed of what was happening at Oxford, and it was he who’d been made a fool off. His anger was boundless, and because of that, barely recovered from his ordeal, his father had allowed him to come to the Witan, to speak as a man must to his king and to face the man who’d allowed all the king’s careful plans to fall to ruin. Twice.
The king was once more at Enham having moved closer to London to be as close to the East Anglian lands as possible but without imperilling himself. Rumours and counter-rumours of Thorkell’s movements, and Olaf’s and Hemming’s, now that the vast raiding army had split into its parts, sped through the Witan and across the land. It seemed as though no one was safe. Even the greatest warriors could not single-handedly defeat so many highly skilled warriors.
Women and children fled at the faintest hint of trouble, but often they fled into greater problems, their men remaining to protect their possessions leaving them without recourse to violence when they happened upon a contingent of one of the fleets.
At Deerhurst, Northman knew his mother was locked up tight, their defences raised and their warriors ready to defend to their last breaths. But the knowledge made his father grumpy and belligerent. It was never natural for him to spend time away from his wife when such danger lurked.
Ulfcytel and those who’d survived the battle had retreated to Thetford but had soon been forced to withdraw even further, dragging the wounded with them when they had to. And then Thorkell had torched the place, his anger truly magnificent at the pitiful attempts of his enemy to stop his advance. And then from there, the army had split, part to Cambridge, part to Bedford and part to snake its way back along the Thames. Everywhere there was misery and outcry.
The fyrds had assembled, the men had formed up, but no matter where they went, the enemy was always elsewhere. The intelligence received by the local reeves and ealdormen could not keep up with the mobility of the fleets. And it all stemmed from Eadric; the man who’d paid Thorkell to attack the lands of the East Anglians.
Forced before the king, Eadric had spent yesterday protesting his innocence, while Northman had fought the bile rising in his throat. To be responsible for so much death and destruction was one thing, but to deny it with such relish was too much for Northman to endure. Yesterday he’d walked away from Eadric; turned his back on his foster-father, and made a very public display as he’d left the Witan.
Still, and even with the knowledge that Eadric’s own foster son fully believed the accusations levelled against him, Æthelred was unsure in the face of such total failure.
The archbishop Wulfstan had, only just, been called upon to offer an explanation of the failure of their penance last year, but the man had turned fiery, blaming the sinful nature of the people of the English for God’s failure to listen to them in their hour of need. And he’d not been alone either. The archbishop of Canterbury, Aelfheah, had raised his voice in agreement, and Æthelred had reacted with blazing eyes and an aggressive demeanour to demand the clerics devise a new way for Divine intervention.
Wulfstan had not damned him for his blasphemy, but the shocked gasps from the assembled men told the story well.
Leofwine sat with a troubled expression, Uhtred of Northumbria beside him but Ulfcytel lost somewhere between his lands and Enham. Athelstan was incensed, Edmund was nursing a wound from his attempt to assist the retreat, and an expectant sense of fear permeated the air, almost tangible in its existence.
Cries for Eadric to be punished went unheeded, the king still not convinced that Eadric had really done what he was accused off, and with each passing moment, Northman’s eyes narrowed a little more. He’d kept his suspicions to himself for surely the king could not have been complicit as well, but hi
s refusal to accept the word of good and loyal men who told him it was so, was painful to watch. Either he would accept them, or he wouldn’t, and on the outcome, the future of the kingdom rested.
The atheling Athelstan, despite his father’s best efforts, had his own powerful and complete power base that stretched from the Mercian lands down into the Wessex heartland, and his men were whispering that it was the time he was king. He’d be a wiser king, a more valiant king, more able to tackle Thorkell.
The queen sat white faced and agitated. Emma was aware of the threats to Æthelred’s kingship, and she knew her children were too young to rule in his stead. Her endurance of her marriage, the birth of her children, might all be irrelevant if these men became convinced that only a new king could fix this problem.
Northman glanced at his father. His face was angry, contorted as he stared straight ahead. Leofwine had taken him to one side last night and hadn’t berated him for his actions, understanding them only too well, but he’d been at pains to make Northman understand how devastating it would be for everyone in England if the country descended into factions and power struggles. Æthelred may not be a good king, but he was their king. At least until his death.
Northman, incredulous at his father’s words, had refused to listen. But now, as he watched the bickering and shouting, screaming and demands for action, Northman understood what his father had been trying to tell him. This was anarchy, pure and straightforward.
When news of the men who’d perished was read out, Oswy of Ipswich, his son, Wulfric and Eadwig at Ipswich, the room had fallen quiet, and there was still no official accounting of the casualties from Thetford. That Thetford had burnt, and Cambridge too had sent shockwaves through the assembled men.
The queen had held her hand to her mouth to cover her shock, and tears had filled her eyes. The people of England had been slow to accept her, but she loved them all the more for that. To hear of the pillaging and rapine that had occurred, left her almost incapable of staying sitting.
