“Well, there goes Byrnhorn, driving right past!” the king said. “What does he think he’s up to?” Felix had been expecting such a comment. Off the starboard side, the ship that had been astern of them, commanded by Ealdorman Byrnhorn, was now passing them by as it went after the Northmen beyond the bow of Æthelwulf’s ship.
There was a good reason, of course, that Æthelwulf’s ship was not pushing forward like Byrnhorn’s. One of the smaller of the heathens’ ships had lashed itself to their larboard side and the bastards likely thought they were going to board the king’s ship and take it. Felix had to admire their guts, if not their brains.
The ship was a third the length of Æthelwulf’s, with less than half the men aboard. Before one of the Northmen had set foot on the king’s ship, the English warriors had broken like a wave onto the heathen’s deck and driven them all back. Now they were butchering them in good order. It was a wonderful thing to see.
Felix flexed his shoulders to settle his mail shirt. The cumulative weight of the hundreds of interlocking metal links, the sound they made when he moved, had a very distant familiarity, something barely remembered. His hand, which once would have settled on the hilt of the sword at his waist with thoughtless ease, now had to search for it.
There was something refreshing about battle, he had to admit, something primal and basic: the armor, the weapons, the unambiguous objectives. It made a nice respite from the court intrigue that was now his lot, the careful manipulation of opinion and rumor, the subtle bending of attitudes.
Not that he could avoid the intrigue, even as they made ready for the sort of fight that involved iron, steel and leather rather than words. All of the ealdormen and important thegns of Wessex were there, each maneuvering for position, and he, Felix, royal gatekeeper, manipulator of the manipulative, had to regulate it, keep it all in order.
And other things besides. Now, for instance, he would have to placate Æthelwulf about his place in the battle and keep him from doing something too bold in the name of reclaiming his youth.
Leave boldness to the expendable ones like Byrnhorn, Felix thought.
But before he could turn and speak he heard Leofric speak first. Leofric of Dorsetshire, a wealthy thegn, old friend and, more importantly, old comrade in arms to King Æthelwulf. He had joined Æthelwulf aboard his ship, and Æthelwulf seemed glad to have him.
“Come now, sire,” Leofric said, his voice loud, his tone jovial. “If you insist on taking the lead the way you did then you must fight whoever comes at you first, like this sorry whore’s son who’s tied himself alongside! And you have to leave some of these bastards for the others to kill, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Æthelwulf said and Felix silently thanked God for sending Leofric to him. Because, in this whole affair, Felix had only two goals in mind. One was to see that Æthelwulf had a big enough part in the battle to satisfy him. The second was to be sure he did not play so big a part as to risk getting hurt.
The day before they had allotted command of the various ships to the ealdormen and thegns who marched with the king from Winchester, and had spread the seven hundred or so warriors and men of the fyrd among them. They had cast off and rowed from the docks at Hamtun to a place up the River Hamble where they could not be seen from the bay, and there tied the ships to the banks.
Felix had suggested to Æthelwulf that his ship, the largest in the fleet, might be best situated at the end of the line, where the king could better see how the battle was playing out, and come into the fight where needed. It was a good try, and Æthelwulf had almost taken the suggestion, but in the end he could not resist being the first into the fight.
Scouts on horseback stationed at intervals down the bay had brought word of the Northmen’s approach. At a council of war it was decided that they would let the heathens’ fleet go past before launching an attack, and thus cutting off their escape. The goal was to crush the vermin completely. And Æthelwulf’s big ship would lead the way.
So far the plan of battle had worked better than Felix dared hope. What Felix had not anticipated was the way the Northmen had arranged their fleet. The big ships had gone first, with the smallest making up the rear guard. And that meant that Æthelwulf’s ship, largest of the English fleet, would be engaging the smallest of the heathens’. They could have their fight, destroy the Northmen and be done with it, with Æthelwulf never getting into the thick of the battle. And that was good because, ultimately, this was nothing but an enormous and unwelcome distraction.
For two years Felix had been organizing Æthelwulf’s upcoming pilgrimage to Rome, and now, just as it was ready to begin, the Northmen arrived to make a mess of the whole thing.
Two years of work, Felix thought, countless letters to Charles and to the pope, all the effort to get young Alfred to Rome and back, and now one unlucky blow from a heathen’s sword and it will all be for naught…
Felix turned to the king and gestured toward the heathen ship lashed to their side, and the fighting on its deck. “They’re making short work of the heathens,” he observed.
“Short work?” Æthelwulf snorted. “They’re taking a bloody long time to make short work of them. Look, there goes Byrnhorn after that big fellow!” The king pointed to one of the others in the British fleet, pulling past, driving into the fight. “And…is that Ingwald? Yes, I believe it’s Ingwald, going after the other. Get these men to finish up here so we can join in the real fighting.”
In fact the men were fighting as well as they could, but before Felix had to take up the distasteful task of pointing that out Leofric jumped in again.
“Sire!” he said, and his tone remained jovial. “See there, those glorious whores’ sons are killing the heathens as fast as ever they can!” He pointed to the larboard side where more than half of Æthelwulf’s men had boarded the Northmen’s ship and driven the enemy to the far side. It was hard to tell what was happening, but the sheer number of English warriors suggested that the Northmen were getting by far the worst of it.
Well done, Leofric, well done, Felix thought. He did not know if Leofric had the same idea as him — keep the king engaged but safe — but it did not matter. The result so far was the same.
Leofric had asked Æthelwulf if he might join him in the fight, and that had made Felix suspicious. Most of the other men of importance had campaigned for ships of their own to command, but not Leofric. He preferred to remain with the king, and Felix wondered what he wanted.
He caught snatches of their conversation through the morning hours as the ship remained tied to the bank. The talk consisted of reminiscing about battles past, interspersed with news from Dorset and rumors about the odd marriage of Ealdorman Nothwulf, who had command of one of the smaller ships, to his late brother’s widow, and the friction that had ensued in Sherborne as a result.
Nothing of any great consequence, Felix was happy to hear.
Leofric’s voice broke through Felix’s reverie. “Ha! See here! Now you’ll have your fighting, sire!”
Felix pulled his eyes from the heathen ship on the larboard side and turned to look at Leofric, but Leofric was looking out over the starboard side and pointing in that direction. Felix followed his finger. Two more of the smaller ships had peeled away from the heathen’s fleet and were coming around to their unengaged side. Felix could see the hideous, open-jawed face of some fanged animal seated at the top of the long, curved stem of the lead ship, like some head on a pike.
The second ship was right astern, and the bows of both ships were crammed with warriors, a dense thicket of shields and helmets and furious, bearded faces. It was a sizable host, and Felix knew it was only a fraction of the men aboard — the bulk of them would be at the oars right up to the moment the ships hit.
He looked back to the larboard side. Most of the warriors who had come with the king were fighting the Northmen there; there were not nearly enough men still aboard to fight the starboard side.
“Ah, damn their eyes, we’ll see to these
fellows!” Æthelwulf shouted.
“We will,” Leofric said, “but we could use some help.”
Felix looked straight forward where the boy with the horn stood waiting for instructions. He met Felix’s eye and Felix nodded. The boy put the horn to his lips and blew a long clear note.
They’ll hear that, Felix thought. Let’s see if they obey.
They certainly heard it. The men along the larboard side of Æthelwulf’s ship, fixated on the fighting there, now turned just as the heathen ship with the animal figurehead was closing the last few feet. Felix could see the look of shock on their faces, but it did not last long. These men were used to this sort of work, and they immediately charged across the deck to meet the new threat.
The first of the English warriors was reaching the starboard side when the ships collided. The heathens had made no effort to slow and their bow hit a solid blow to the English ship’s side. Felix stumbled with the surprising force of the impact and he saw half a dozen men go down, others staggering as they tried to retain their balance. They were still stumbling when the Northmen came over the rail.
They came swarming around the bow of their ship, climbing and leaping down to the deck of Æthelwulf’s ship, shouting their devil’s shouts with shields held ready and swords and axes and spears in hand. The first few went down under the blades of Æthelwulf’s men, but soon there were too many Northmen, coming aboard too fast, for them to all be killed as they came.
Felix heard the sound of Æthelwulf drawing his sword. “Come along now,” the king shouted, “let’s be at these bastards! God is calling us to the fight!”
“Hold, sire, I pray,” Leofric shouted. “Your guards are the best fighting men aboard. Let’s wait to see where in the fight we can best be used!”
“We can best be used where the damned heathens are boarding the ship!” Æthelwulf shouted, but then he added, “Very well, we’ll wait and watch a moment.”
And it was an amazing thing to watch: the Northmen’s ships to starboard and larboard, the fighting surging across the decks of the English ship and the smaller heathen ship lashed to the larboard side. Felix could see one fellow there, one of the enemy, broad and strong-looking, with long yellow hair, slashing wildly with his sword and fending off attacks with a half-shattered shield. He was bleeding from several wounds but seemed not to notice.
Along with him there was only a handful of the Northmen still standing, maybe a dozen or so. The rest lay strewn around the deck, their bodies tangled with the bodies of the English warriors they had taken down with them.
Once again Felix felt the ship shudder with the impact of another vessel, and he heard the deep thudding sound and the sharper cracking noises of two vessels coming together. The second of the Northmen’s ships had hit the starboard side and the men were coming aboard as fast as they could. The English warriors were there to meet them, but they had to cover the whole length of the ship now, and their numbers had been much reduced by the fighting so far, and they were taking on the crews of two ships, not just one.
What had looked to be an easy victory at first was looking considerably more worrisome now. It had been Felix’s thought that the king’s men would board the heathens’ ship and fight there. But now the heathens were swarming aboard Æthelwulf’s ship. That was not how it was supposed to happen.
“Drive them back! Back aboard their own ships, fight them there!” Felix shouted and was immediately embarrassed by his own lack of restraint. No one fighting forward would hear him, nor was he telling them to do anything they were not already trying to do. It was just weakness on his part that he could not keep his mouth shut.
“We’re surrounded now,” Æthelwulf shouted, “so we can go forward and fight or we can stand here and die like frightened women! Let’s go!”
Felix could think of no argument he might make. The heathens were closing in, and the best fighting men on the ship — the king’s guards — were standing by watching as if this was some sport or dance. There was not much choice now.
He stepped forward, three steps, and grabbed the captain of the king’s guards by the shoulder and leaned close. “We’ll go into the fight! You and your men keep your wall around the king, hear? You fight as best you can, but your chief duty is still to protect the king!”
The captain nodded. He raised his sword, looked left and right. “Forward!” he shouted and the line that had stood like a palisade against the afterdeck began to move forward, quick but disciplined. Felix looked out over their heads. The English and Northmen were locked in close battle, a surging mass, hard to tell one man from another, or friend from foe. No one saw the king’s guard advancing and that was good. Any advantage, no matter how small, was good.
“After them!” Æthelwulf shouted. Felix turned back and looked at the king. His face was split with a wide smile, parting his beard, grayer than black now, and revealing white and fairly even teeth. His eyes were bright, gleaming. He looked more alive than Felix had ever seen him. He looked like a man ready to enjoy a fight: brutal, decisive and unequivocal. He looked like a man who was remembering what it was like to be twenty-five and leading warriors into battle and liking it.
“Yes, after them!” Leofric shouted. He looked determined and serious. Not frightened at all, or hesitant, but not eager like Æthelwulf was. Leofric was not reliving the past, he was displaying concern about the present.
Then Æthelwulf stepped forward and to Felix’s surprise rather than climb down from the afterdeck to the deck below, he jumped. And to Felix’s further surprise he did not injure himself doing so. He and Leofric followed, jumped as well, and the three of them hurried forward in the wake of the king’s guard.
The captain of the guard was the first of them into the fight and he chose his spot well, right at the aft end of the struggle, where the Northmen leaping aboard were threatening to come around the flank of the Englishmen and get behind them. The heathens did not see the guards coming until they were there, swords thrusting and hacking at the mass of men. Felix saw the captain’s blade open up a long and bloody gash on one of the Northmen’s arms. The Northman turned toward the captain. He did not look hurt, only surprised, and he still looked surprised when the point of the captain’s sword split his throat.
“At them!” Æthelwulf shouted as he came up behind his house guard. He thrust his sword between two of the men and Felix saw it deflect off the face of a Northman’s shield.
“Stand aside, stand aside!” Æthelwulf shouted, struggling to get past his men and come to grips with the enemy, but the guards seemed not to hear him, and they did not let him through.
Felix stepped up next to Æthelwulf, sword held in front of him, and as he saw a space open between the guards he drove the point through the gap. He felt the sword stick into something that gave resistance, just for an instant, and then the blade drove further in and someone screamed. An old but well remembered sensation, like the feel of the mail shirt on his shoulders.
Somewhere close by Felix heard one of the English fighting men shout, “The king! The king is with us!” and suddenly a great upwelling of cheers and shouts and calls of “The king!” came rolling across the deck. And with it came a surge of energy, as if the crowd of English warriors were all one great beast and that beast suddenly roused itself to make a renewed push to drive this hated enemy off. They heaved themselves forward and step by step they drove the Northmen back.
The heathens were still shouting their devilish war cries, still fighting hard, but now they were all but drowned out by the enthusiastic cheers of the English. Felix saw some of the enemy host climbing over the rail of Æthelwulf’s ship and back aboard their own.
“At them! Don’t let the bastards live!” Æthelwulf shouted as he pushed forward with the rest. A spear reached out from the press of men and the king batted it away with his shield and countered with a thrust of his sword, a sword he had carried for four decades, that his father had carried before him. If it found a mark, Felix could not tell. Æthelwu
lf drew the sword back, raised it overhead and hacked down at the heathen line.
Good, good… Felix thought. He could sense the shift in momentum as the English warriors pushed forward. Leofric was on the king’s other side and he and Æthelwulf were hacking away with abandon. There was no subtlety in fighting such as this: victory went to the most determined, and the most brutal.
Up and down the English line the cheering grew louder, the enthusiasm grew more palpable as the Northmen were hacked down or driven over the rail and back aboard their ships. Those English warriors who were unable to get close enough to the fighting to do any good hurled their spears over the heads of the others. Most missed, but here and there one found a Northman and sent him screaming and writhing to the deck, where he was trampled under the feet of the fighting mob.
The heathens were wielding their spears as well, standing on the sheer strake of their ship and thrusting or hurling them down into the English line. Felix could see the spears hit their mark, the men knocked back by the impact.
“We’ll board their ships!” Æthelwulf shouted. “Board them and kill the lot, take the ships!”
No, we won’t, Felix thought. Victory was almost in their hands now, as complete a victory as they could hope for. There would be no more risk to the king’s life.
But victory was not won yet, and he and the king and Leofric were still hacking and thrusting at the enemy in front. Felix caught a flash out of the corner of his eye, heard a grunting noise. He turned and the king was not there. He looked down at the deck. Æthelwulf was lying splayed out on the boards, thrashing, eyes and mouth open, a spear standing up from his chest. The dagger point of the weapon, hurled with great force, had gone right through the king’s fine chain mail and possibly out the other side.
The Midgard Serpent Page 23
