by Martin Lake
‘They’re likely to feast on us even sooner,’ Bryni said.
‘Hold steady,’ Ulf called. ‘These men are not used to the taste of Wessex steel.’
The first of the attackers crashed into the shield-wall. The Vikings clearly lacked leadership. A good commander would have kept them together until the final charge. As it was they smashed against the shield-wall piecemeal. in twos and threes, and the King’s-thegns dispatched them with ease.
But then a larger body of them got closer, holding back for a moment to group together. They charged as one, a heavy ram of men which forced the Saxon warriors back ten paces. But when Holdwine called out to them to hold their ground they planted their feet grimly into the earth and repulsed the charge.
‘Well done, men,’ Holdwine cried. ‘Now push the bastards back. Push.’
Step by step the men of Wessex did as he asked. They were greatly outnumbered but their experience and skill with weapons began to tell. Suddenly, the Vikings lost heart and, in dribs and drabs, began to slip away. The last few, those most determined, brave or desperate, died where they stood.
The clamour of battle ended as suddenly as it had begun. A new hush hung over them and then, in the trees above, a blackbird returned to its song.
Ulf drew breath. He glanced at the corpses in front of him. There must have been twenty or so.
‘How many men have we lost?’ he said.
‘Two only,’ Holdwine called. ‘Ceowulf and one of the fyrdmen. A few more are wounded but can walk.’
Ulf glanced at his friend. He had defeated an overwhelming force and seemed almost dazed by it.
‘We should get moving,’ Ulf said to him. ‘If we put the dead men on the carts we can bury then when we’ve reached somewhere safe.’
Holdwine nodded his agreement.
They pushed on along the road, anxiously scanning the skyline for any sign of danger. They had travelled five or more miles and had seen nothing to alarm them. And that was when Ulf began to grow uneasy.
It was September and the fields should have been busy with people gathering the harvest. These fields were empty apart from crops. The villages they passed were equally empty, with no sign of people or beasts. Yet a few cottages had smoke drifting from them, the fires within still burning.
‘They’ve been abandoned,’ Holdwine said.
‘Yes,’ said Ulf, ‘and only a few hours ago.’
He glanced at his friend. The empty lands were not the result of the depredations they had seen a few days earlier. They were a sign of recent flight, from an enemy too deadly.
‘We must hurry,’ Holdwine said.
Late in the afternoon they came. Not a hundred Vikings this time, but double that number. And they marched as one, in an ordered mass. Clearly these were no wandering rabble of adventurers but seasoned warriors led by an experienced man.
They were only half a mile distant and marching fast. Faster than the Saxons could manage, slowed down as they were by supplies and tired and elderly priests.
‘Leave everything behind apart from weapons and the treasure,’ Ulf said to Holdwine. ‘We must make a run for it.’
Cuthred grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Look there.’
Ulf turned to where he was pointing. A furlong away was a river with a narrow one-plank bridge. Some distance beyond stood a large hall with a high stockade around it. Presumably it belonged to some Frankish lord who could be persuaded or bribed to give them shelter.
Hope flared in Ulf. ‘One man could hold the Vikings at the bridge while the rest cross to safety.’
‘But there’s hundreds of them,’ said Sighelm. ‘Are you a fool?’
‘No. But we’re desperate.’
‘I will hold the bridge,’ Holdwine told the ealdorman. ‘You lead the others to safety. I doubt anyone but you can persuade the Franks to open their gates.’
Sighelm hesitated for a moment, then saw the wisdom of Holdwine’s words.
Whatever may have been said about the ealdorman’s shortcomings the ability to organise a flight was not one of them. He formed the warriors into a shield-wall in front of the bridge then marshalled the priests and servants, calmed their panic and got them across the river without mishap.
Once they were across he ordered the warriors to follow. A few dissented, wishing to stay with Holdwine, but the command in Sighelm’s voice was imperious and, mumbling angrily, they trooped over to safety. Only Ulf remained with Holdwine.
‘Get across the river,’ Sighelm called. ‘The three of us can hold the far side of the bridge. And we may yet be able to get to the village.’
Holdwine shook his head. ‘If we make a stand on the far side the Vikings will wade across the river and swarm up the bank behind us.’
‘But there’s a bridge here,’ Sighelm said. ‘It must mean the river’s too deep to cross by foot.’
‘I’ve seen Danes wade up to their necks in water if necessary. It’s summer and it looks like the river is not deep.’
Sighelm seemed inclined to argue more. But there was no time for the Vikings were almost upon them.
‘Go, Sighelm,’ Holdwine cried. ‘Your duty is to get the King’s treasure to Rome.’
‘And yours?’
‘To protect you from thieves.’
Sighelm nodded and harangued the warriors into following the priests to the village.
‘You must go, too,’ Holdwine told Ulf.
Ulf did not answer. ‘There are many Vikings,’ he said.
Holdwine grunted.
‘Too many for you to fight alone,’ Ulf continued.’ I will stand with you.’
Holdwine started to argue but then saw the determined look on Ulf’s face.
‘Is this repayment for all the hours I spent teaching you to fight?’ he asked.
‘That and friendship,’ Ulf answered.
The two men unsheathed their swords.
Ulf felt sick inside. He did not repent his decision to fight with his friend but neither did he relish it. Death awaited him, there could be no other outcome. He thought of his friends, of his mother, father and brother but already they seemed to be drifting out of his mind. And then the image of Inga swam into his mind. He felt bereft at leaving her. Bereft but more determined. He would make her proud of him. He would die bravely and without regret.
He put his sword to his lips and kissed the blade. The nearest of the Vikings was only a furlong away, a man who prided himself on his swiftness. He drew his sword as he ran but his breath was labouring from exertion.
Holdwine stepped out to meet him, feinted with his shield, then swept the blade across the man’s chest, downing him. He leapt forward and drove his sword into the man’s heart.
He had just straightened when a second Viking appeared, tall and strong. He wielded a huge axe and he swung at Holdwine as if he were a sapling in a forest. Holdwine managed to raise his sword to deflect it but the force of the blow almost knocked him off his feet. As he struggled to regain balance the axe crashed down once more, onto his helm. He reeled and fell and the Viking loomed over him.
But before he had time to deal the killing blow, Ulf leapt. He caught the Viking unawares, drove his sword-point into his chest and danced away.
The man collapsed on the ground, arms thrashing, blood seeping from the wound.
Ulf bent to his friend. The helm was dented and Holdwine dead or unconscious. It would be impossible to carry him to safety in time. He glanced up at the oncoming Vikings. They yelled in triumph as they raced forwards, a screaming, unstoppable deluge.
Slowly he rose from his crouch, wondering whether to retreat to the bridge or stand here, guarding his fallen friend.
‘Does he live?’ cried a voice from behind.
Cuthred appeared at his side, then bent to examine Holdwine.
‘He does,’ he said. ‘Just.’
He straightened up. ‘Shall I fight with you, lord?’
Ulf shook his head. ‘No. Take Holdwine over the bridge. Get him to safety. And see if yo
u can heal him. He’s not so different from a mule.’
Cuthred grunted, bent and flung Holdwine over his shoulder as if he were a child.
Ulf watched until he had crossed the bridge and then turned his attention once more to the enemy.
He backed up until he felt the timbers of the bridge beneath his feet. There was one timber hand-rail, on his left. He could make use of that. If he positioned himself correctly it would act as a barrier, a second shield receiving some of the wilder cuts of his enemies.
The first man to attack did not see this. He swept his arm down, Ulf took half a step to his right and the Viking blade bounced off the timber rail. The Viking struggled to control it but his life was already over. Ulf stabbed him in the shoulder, forcing his blade down towards the man’s lungs. He gave a high-pitched shriek and fell to the earth.
A second man attacked, bending low to try to stab Ulf in the legs. Ulf smashed his shield down, catching the man on the forearm and hacking at his neck with his blade. Blood sprayed over them both, a bright spume smelling of iron. The Viking jerked in his death throes. Ulf considered putting him out of his misery but he had more to concern him than this.
A third man leapt into view, his mouth wide with a savage grin. Ulf plunged his sword into it, smashing teeth, severing tongue and drilling through the neck. He seemed to still be wearing the grin as he fell.
The rest of the Vikings were arriving now. They slowed to a halt. They had seen the fate of their fellows and knew that they were facing a skilful and resourceful opponent.
Ulf grinned at them. ‘Who’s next to meet his gods? Come on, lads, let me help you join the warriors in their feast hall in the sky.’
One man, a youth with no beard, leapt forward. Ulf dispatched him with one deft stroke. He looked surprised as he fell, almost aggrieved. Ulf thrust his sword into his stomach to finish him.
He risked a glance behind. The first of the priests had reached the settlement, it was amazing how fast they had moved, and the stockade gate was being opened for them. Cuthred was labouring up the slope close behind them, holding tight on Holdwine.
Ulf grinned. He had bought them the time they needed. He had done his duty to them and to the King.
He turned once more to face his foes.
The Vikings fell silent, wondering how best to defeat the solitary warrior. Then one man strode forward, tall, well-built, his face wide with amusement. He felt swiftly in his belt, plucked out a throwing axe and flung it at Ulf.
Ulf tried to leap out of its path but the axe moved swifter than he did, smashing on his cheek and sending him reeling to the ground.
The last thing he saw was the man picking up his axe and grasping him by the throat.
HÆSTENN
Ulf shook his head, still dazed from the impact of the axe.
The man squeezed his throat more fiercely, watching the effect upon Ulf. It felt like a knife blade was being ground into his throat. His vision began to blur and he heard, as if from a great distance, a terrible retching noise.
‘Not so tough now are you?’ the Viking said.
He relaxed his grip and Ulf gasped for air. He tried to get up but the man pushed him back to the ground and thrust his fist at his mouth.
‘Do you want to play dice with your teeth?’ he said.
Ulf did not move. He liked his teeth.
‘Kill him, Jokul,’ one of the men called. ‘Those priests escaped because of him.’
‘Yes,’ cried another. ‘And whatever treasure was in those chests.’
‘We could get it still,’ said the first man. ‘Let’s storm the village.’
Jokul shook his head. ‘It belongs to one of Eudes’s friends. It will be well defended and we’d lose too many men.’
He grinned at Ulf. ‘But this one may be an important man. Perhaps somebody will be willing to trade him for gold.’
He pulled Ulf to his feet. ‘Come on, boy, I’m taking you to Hæstenn.’
Ulf’s heart missed a beat. Hæstenn was one of the most powerful of all Northmen, greater even than Guthrum. His name was known across all Christendom and the fear he inspired stretched even further. He tried to control his sense of dread and panic. Fate had just delivered him the most terrible of blows.
The Viking settlement was situated on the northern bank of a swift flowing river. Ulf had seen Viking camps before; they consisted of roughhewn benches, piles of blankets and a few tents for the leaders of the army.
This was different. It looked almost a village, with scores of wooden huts, a small feast-hall and fenced areas containing pigs and goats. A large pen to the east of the settlement contained a herd of four score horses. On the edge of the village stood a long, low pen made of iron bars, a surprising choice for it was only high enough for chickens and there were none to be seen in it.
Jokul gestured towards the settlement. ‘This is the town of Hæstenn,’ he said. ‘You’ll eke out the few days that remain to you here.’
Ulf did not reply. He was too busy searching the area for the best way to escape. It would not be easy. The river looked too deep to easily cross by foot and the settlement was surrounded by open fields with only a few hedges and bushes in which a man could hide. But to the east, about a mile away, he saw the edge of a forest. If he could get to that he should be able to hide.
‘Come see your new owner,’ Jokul sneered. ‘And learn what it means to despair.’
Half a dozen Viking warriors were seated at a trestle table beside a cooking fire. They were part way through their meal, the board was covered with the spills of food and ale. They made a tremendous noise, talking, laughing, continually shouting over one another. If it had been his own people Ulf would have grinned at the good-humour of it all. Now he felt only apprehension.
‘I have brought you a gift, mighty Hæstenn,’ Jokul said.
Half a dozen heads turned towards him, their eyes alert with interest. Ulf marked out one of the men as most likely to be Hæstenn, a tall, strong-looking warrior with one eye, a black beard and broken nose.
He could not have been more wrong.
‘Bring him here,’ came a quiet voice.
Ulf stared at the speaker in surprise. So this mild-looking man was the dreadful Hæstenn? He was about fifty years old, very small and slim, almost as if he were a youth of fifteen summers or so. His head was devoid of hair and, except for a long, carefully braided beard, his face smooth and unblemished, more like that of a priest than a warrior.
He smiled gently at Ulf, as though he was a friend he had not seen for many months, and beckoned him to come closer, pulling up a stool for him.
‘I am pleased to welcome you, stranger,’ he said. His voice was quiet and pleasant to listen to, with a higher pitch than was normal in a man. He examined the wound on Ulf’s cheek and wiped away the dried blood with a rag. ‘It’s not too bad, it should heal well.’
Things might go well, Ulf thought, his hopes lifting for the first time in a day. He glanced at Hæstenn’s eyes. They were warm and friendly, with a twinkle about them as though he was forever noticing the merry things of life. The eyes of a good friend or perhaps a kindly uncle.
But then he noticed something strange. He could not work it out for a moment but then he realised what was wrong. Hæstenn never blinked. His eyes observed Ulf with bland regard but their constant watchfulness gave them an unnerving quality. No one would be able to hide anything from such eyes. They were constantly aware, constantly on the look-out, relentless.
‘You come surrounded closely by my warriors,’ Hæstenn continued, ‘and my friend Jokul says that you are a gift. Am I right in thinking this indicates you are my captive?’
Ulf swallowed. The question was put in a pleasant manner but this pleasantness was belied by Hæstenn’s unblinking eyes. Like a toad, Ulf thought. Or a snake.
‘You are right in thinking this, great Hæstenn,’ he said. ‘I am correct in assuming that you are the most famous of Northmen?’
‘You are, my boy.’ Hæstenn
laughed and patted Ulf on the arm, then turned to his warriors. ‘See how my fame goes before me in the world.’
‘Everyone knows Hæstenn,’ said one of the men. It was not said in a particularly friendly manner.
‘That is indeed, the truth of it, Snorri,’ Hæstenn said. ‘My fame is wider than the realm of Francia, deeper than the whale road which separates our home from soft, southern lands.’
He sighed. ‘I do not know the reason for such renown,’ he continued, ‘but if it is heaped upon me, so be it. It is, indeed, as good a treasure as a hoard of coins.’
‘For you maybe, Hæstenn,’ Snorri said. ‘but not for us. We can’t eat fame, we can’t drink it.’
‘Oh, you jest, Snorri,’ Hæstenn said. ‘You know that many of our battles are won before they begin solely because of my reputation.’
‘So you tell us. But I have seen precious few battles these last two years. And nor have any of us.’
Ulf glanced at the rest of the warriors. They were listening intently but none saw fit to venture an opinion. The board which had been so raucous only moments before was now silent as midnight.
‘And we have seen even less treasure,’ Snorri added.
‘You speak true, Snorri, alas.’ Hæstenn sighed. ‘Perhaps I am getting too weary to lead such tremendous warriors as I see here at my table. Perhaps I should give way to a younger man.’
Snorri’s eyes flashed with hunger and he swiftly picked up his mug and swilled from it.
Hæstenn watched him for a moment longer and then turned to Ulf. ‘Come, stranger,’ he said, passing him a cup of ale, ‘eat and drink and tell us your tale. You speak our tongue but I doubt you are a Northman. My guess is that you are a Saxon.’
Ulf took a sip of the ale.
‘I am a Saxon, lord Hæstenn. I was journeying south to Rome when your warrior Jokul invited me to join him and come to meet you.’
Hæstenn laughed. ‘Ah, a man of great good humour, I see.’ He smiled broadly. ‘You are like me, young Saxon, for I also jest much.’ He raised his own mug in salute of Ulf.
