He took his shield from his back and threaded his left arm through the support, his left hand closing around the grip in the iron boss at the round’s centre. The shield was of alder wood, light and strong, with a leathern covering which had been wetted and shrunk to fit the wooden disc. The face of it had been painted in two bright halves, yellow and blue, the yellow to echo the golden dragon banner of Wessex, the blue to recall the foaming waters beneath Kilton’s hall. The inside was lined too in leather, and padded to lend protection to bracing left arm, shoulder, and knee. Unlike some men, Ceric had not painted nor drawn any figure or symbol within his shield, something to look upon when it was raised in his left arm. Worr had painted an open eye in his, telling Ceric it reminded him the Almighty Watcher saw him, and to do his best. Other men carved or painted marks in theirs: crosses, or runes. He thought again of Sidroc the Dane, and his red and black shield, and the bind rune painted therein.
A brass horn sounded, one blown by Eadward’s herald, and all like thoughts fell away. The men formed up. Eadward stood in direct line from the palisade gates, for from there would the opposing force issue. He would be the Dane’s prized target, the man they most sought to kill, just as Haesten would be theirs. His picked bodyguard surrounded him, twenty of his best warriors. Ceric and his men stood just before these. As he took his place Ceric heard the Prince’s words in his mind again, distinguishing him thus. Eadward had picked him and Kilton to stand with Eadward’s own best.
Another man was at Eadward’s side, one but a youth in Eadward’s train. He wore a tunic of leather, but other than a long seax carried no weapon. In his hands was held a staff bearing the large battle flag of Wessex, nearly twice the size of those carried by the horses, now sent to safety in the rear. His role was one of honour and of danger, to stand as near to Eadward as could be, holding the fluttering banner aloft, marking the place where their Prince stood and fought. Eadward would call out orders, urging his men, directing their efforts, but in the noise and clamour of battle those outside ear-shot could but glance up and see the dragon pennon aloft and know their Prince still lived. The pennon, and the man it marked, was the rallying point for all to come.
The foot-men were in place, just behind the foremost rank of the shield-wall. Ceric and Worr and Wistan and the others were in two ranks behind them. One of the foot-men turned and looked at Ceric, a wide-eyed lad of no more than fourteen years, he thought, holding his sling in one hand, his leathern pouch of river stones on his hip. He thought of a sudden of the youth he had given the sword and knife to, after he had killed the Dane in the forest ambush.
He felt with keenness how much better was this than those cramped confines amongst the trees, where he had taken that first life. The Danes who had died in the ambush suffered squalid deaths, pulled from their horses unawares and run through. At least his man had a chance to fight back, to defend himself. But this, today, on a field, was ever to be preferred. The expansiveness of pitched battle made the men themselves taking part larger. A bigger sky loomed over their heads.
Ceric had let his men choose which rank in which to stand; that nearest to Eadward and his defending body-guard, or that closest to the first shield-wall. Ceric looked back and saw Eadward, almost directly behind him, his picked warriors already glaring out from under the eye holes of their helmets. Turning back to the palisade walls of Middeltun he saw that few of the Danes who had been watching from the ramparts could be seen.
The Sun was now high enough in the sky to cast shadows that rapidly shrank as it climbed.
All that was left was to call out the foe. The brass horn of the herald sounded, long and low.
Eadward bellowed out his challenge. “Take your stand, Haesten, and meet death at my hand!”
Silence. Eadward’s men stood about and around him, holding their shields and weapons, waiting. One long moment passed into another.
Then one of Eadward’s body-guard, standing at his very right, struck the iron rim of his upheld shield with the flat of his sword. The sound of metal on metal rang out. Another man did the same, and another, one sword after the next rapping against the iron-bound rim of a waiting shield.
Ceric had heard this before in sparring, done it as well, but it was a taunt acted almost in jest. The rattling sound of scores of warriors doing so sounded no jest. He joined the jarring, rhythmic rattle, beating the flat of his sword, Godwulf’s sword, against his shield-rim. He felt the strength in his wrist, in his grip, as he did so. No man would fling this sword from his grasp today.
The palisade gates swung open.
“Stand!” called Eadward, behind him. They must not advance until the order was given.
Out at a trot came a doubled file of Danes on foot. At first sight of them the rattle of Saxon swords against shield-rims grew louder, and was joined by voiced calls and hoots of derision. Ceric found himself swaying slightly as he held his place in the shield wall, and saw other men doing so as well, shifting lightly from foot to foot in anticipation as their swords clanged and taunts flew.
He watched as the Danes quickly spread into a single rank ranged before them. They were as well armed as were Eadward’s troops; perhaps the men who had been sent to the ships were those lesser warriors without the protective gear and weapons of their brethren who had remained to defend the fortress.
Now he saw the line of the Danes change again, even as they kept on trotting towards them. The single line compressed, became a wedge fronted by a single warrior, with two behind him, then three, four, five; an ever growing and ever denser wedge of men aimed for the centre of their shield wall.
It was the formation the Danes called boar-snout, meant to punch through the staunchest wall of thegns. Their greatest champion took the single position in front, with men of nearly equal repute behind him.
Haesten’s answer was clear. He would not match his warriors one-to-one in a shield-wall of his own, but would at first assault attempt to penetrate Eadward’s ranks, forcing a melée.
“Men of Kilton, close up, double-ranked!” came the order from behind. Eadward would try to absorb the shock by piling his own men together.
Ceric felt Worr move closer to him, and he too closed up the slight distance lying between his shield and Wistan’s shoulder. He knew his men at the furthest edges of his rank had pulled in, doubling their numbers, to act as a damper to the coming assault.
His eyes were riveted ahead, but he saw Worr’s helmet from the tail of his right eye. The Danes were trotting forward with steely precision, aiming right at him. His ears were filled with the racket he and all other of the thegns were making. Yet an odd quiet filled him, that, and a flush of gratitude for Worr’s devotion. Why, when they were arming, had he not turned to Worr, and embraced him as a brother? Now he could not. He could not break the spell, that spell of standing under orders which was part of the bond between those waiting in this wall.
He stopped his slight shifting of his weight, and braced himself against his shield. He stilled his hand, aware that the rattle all around him had also died down, as they awaited Eadward’s next order.
The long line of archers in front of the men of Kilton had nocked their arrows. The youths with slings had them ready loaded and were whirring them over their heads. Those with throwing spears had taken their stances, prepared to launch.
The order came. “Foot-men!” cried Eadward.
A volley of arrows arced over the heads of the shield-wall, sleeting down upon the advancing Danes. Round stones the size of plums were flung at speed, able to kill a man if they hit face or head, or break the largest bone. Throwing spears were lofted with grunting oaths by the spear-men. All these took their toll, and as the missile-throwers ran back and out of the way, they heard the cries of those Danes who had met what they had thrown.
Still they kept on, the boar-snout fortified by new men. The apex of that snout was no more than fifteen paces away now. Eadward’s battle cry would come at any moment, and his men would answer b
ack and stride forward as a man to meet the onrushing Danes.
The Prince’s battle-cry was of the simplest, and that which had already sounded in Ceric’s ears, the single word which was his father-King’s name.
“Ælfred!”
They all responded, repeating the name of their King. An answering cry rose from the Danes bearing down on them. Ceric opened his mouth again, with his battle-cry for Kilton’s warriors.
“For Christ, Ælfred, and Kilton,” he yelled.
The words were hot in his mouth, his cry drowning out all else in his ears. Then he was moving forward, as if in a leap, following the strides made by the shield-wall in front of him. He could see the face of the champion of the Danes now, that man who formed the point of the boar-snout, coming almost at a run. They must absorb the brunt of the wedge, diffuse its force, forbid a rent in the war-hedge surrounding and protecting their Prince. To compress themselves too much meant leaving their flanks open to be run at, and around; the men of Wedmore and Meretun would find that their task. But Kilton’s men and the others at the centre must withstand the boar-snout, and the sword-tusks charging at them.
Ceric as he moved saw the bared teeth of the Danes who rushed at him, saw men with yellow or brown hair falling down from beneath their helmets, and the eyes that gleamed from iron eye-holes in those helmets. He glimpsed Danes already felled by spear or arrow from the foot-men’s volleys, some trying to rise to their feet, others lying still upon the grass behind the onrushers. A blur of leather before him, steel blades, the pressing rounds of shields in every colour yet drained of hue. Then the thegn in front of him fell; Ceric did not know how, but he nearly stumbled over him. He leapt to the side, knocking he thought into Worr’s shield; he could not turn his head to look. There were screams now, screams and oaths; and the hacking of weapons into wood, clanging against other swords, and finding human flesh.
His eyes were always forward. He knew to pick his man, and one at the edge of a rank of five in the boar-snout presented himself. The Dane was coming faster than his brethren in his line, and Ceric had but to lunge to his right to place himself before him. He surprised the Dane, who answered with a grin and a quick nod of his helmeted head. The Dane was both older and taller than Ceric, but no more powerfully built. Besides his helmet he was protected with a ring-shirt, and in his hand was the longer sword oftentimes favoured by the Danes. Ceric’s left hand, holding his shield, moved crosswise across his body as he extended his sword arm. The Dane’s eye fell upon the bright hilt gripped by Ceric, fell upon the gold there, freezing him a moment as his eyes filled with that treasure.
It was enough. Ceric thrust his shield forward and to his left, and with his right slashed upward on the common iron of the Dane’s half-extended sword. It did not fall from his fist, but was driven up enough that Ceric’s next drive was to the wrist itself, hacking against the naked flesh of it. A gasping cry uttered from the twisting mouth of the Dane, and a spurt of blood, warm and thick, spattered across Ceric’s face and chest. The man dropped, screaming, holding the maimed arm in the air as he did.
Down your man, then kill him, Ceric heard in his head, direction given him by every man who had trained him. With force he pressed his booted foot on the Dane’s hip, then rammed his sword through the neck opening of the man’s ring-shirt. The upheld arm fell.
He straightened up, drew breath. It had happened so fast, been done with such ease. Two strokes and he had killed one trying to kill him.
He turned his head to left and right. The shield-wall had been breached, thegns no longer arrayed shield-to-shield, but caught in their own contests. There was Worr, still to his right, fighting it seemed two Danes. He sprang to Worr’s shield side, taking the man there. He startled all three by doing so, but saw too Worr’s grateful look as he glanced at him. The horse-thegn of Kilton was a powerful swordsman, but here he faced two men of unequal height, hampering his ability to coordinate action of shield and sword. The Dane Ceric opposed was the shorter of the two, and one who moved with the agile quickness of a youth. He could be no older than Ceric, perhaps a year or two younger. A sideways look at the other man told Ceric that he and Worr faced son and father, or nephew and uncle; there was a likeness between the two men. The young Dane took him in, in the moment Ceric readied his sword. The eyes of the youth widened, looking on him. Ceric’s face and chest was splashed with blood, Danish blood. Ceric could smell it, and when he had shook his head after the killing he felt it run from his cheek down his chin. He knew the tribes of the Old People had smeared themselves with pigments before going into war: here before this invading Dane was a man of Wessex in war-paint issued from his own blade.
Worr had stepped aside, away from Ceric, drawing the older man with him, giving Ceric room. It worked to Worr’s advantage, as the elder, distracted by his concern for the youth, tried to edge his way back to him. But Ceric had the youth fully involved. The young Dane was a good swordsman, and used his speed to advantage, raising his black shield with the same quickness to block Ceric’s blows as he used to deliver his own rapid thrusts. The Dane’s sword beat against the upraised blue and yellow shield, leaving gashes both shallow and deep, and striking more than once the iron boss, making Ceric’s clenched hand behind it tingle.
Cadmar had taught Ceric about such swordsmen, taught him to take a number of blows, offering none, until the man tired. And he had taught him more, about using the shield and its pointed boss as a weapon in itself. When, after Ceric had deflected a number of rapid sword blows, the Dane’s blade tip lodged itself for a moment between wood and iron rim, Ceric had his chance. He lunged forward behind his shield, placing all his weight against it, and knocked the Dane first back, and then down, the point of the boss raised now at the man’s collarbone. The Dane staggered, his back knee touching the ground, and fought to bring his now-freed sword to bear, but Ceric swung his own, edge-first, against the side of the man’s helmet.
A sucking gasp; nothing more. Ceric had struck at the jaw-line, hitting metal, yes; but severing into the neck under the chin as well. There was no need for Ceric to deliver the mercy killing-thrust; the Dane’s eyes rolled into his head as he crumpled before him.
A yelp from the older man turned Ceric back to Worr. Seeing his kin go down made the Dane redouble his efforts. But Worr had already made a hit; Ceric saw blood running down the man’s left leg, some wound to shield arm or torso. The Dane was yelling, fighting wrathfully and in pain, and Worr was hacking away, silent save for his grunts. He advanced only, never gave ground, fought steadily, without show and without stopping, sword thrusting, shield blocking. As the Dane he fought tired Worr’s own strength seemed to grow.
This Dane will ask for quarter, Ceric thought, he will drop his sword and ask for life. But he did not. He kept on, parrying Worr’s sword and trying to bring to bear his own. A few steps brought them closer to where the body of the young Dane lay; the older could not help but see the grievous wound to the head which had ended his life. A look downward. Worr’s sudden and much faster lunge, sword held low, driving into the older Dane’s waist at the hipbone. A final feeble swing of the Dane’s blade. He fell, still holding it, the fist spreading only when he toppled upon the youth’s body.
Worr pulled back, turned to Ceric. He was breathing heavily but mastered his voice. “What happened,” he asked, gesturing with the wrist of his sword-hand to the blood Ceric bore, a broad stripe of glistening red that showed even on the darkened steel of his ring-tunic.
“Not mine,” Ceric told him.
Worr himself looked unmarked. There was little fighting about them; they had been at the fore-edge of it, and the contest was now all behind them. There was the dragon banner of Wessex, held aloft, waving furiously from the centre of a thick knot of warring men. Fragments of the shield wall could be discerned before and about that knot, three or four men shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking the way of equal numbers of Danes trying to pass them and reach the banner and who it flew above.
They broke and ran to them. They could not move fast; Ceric was now aware of the heaviness of his ring-tunic, the weight of his sword and shield, the fact that his arms had not the spring nor his legs the speed with which he had begun. They could not move fast for the bodies they must skirt, lying in heaps, locked after fatal combat; or sprawled, legs flung, like bloodied sleeping men. Ceric saw the opened brain-pans of thegns, the hacked torsos of the enemy, unknown faces smashed to pulp by the hammering skeggox; what had been living men was so much torn and ghastly meat. It was no more than what he had seen as a child at Kilton, save that he himself had driven some of these wounds.
Those still alive moaned, or screamed in anguished pain, or tried to drag themselves, heedless to further danger, from the gore they lay in.
He and Worr had nearly reached a line of four thegns, one of them of Kilton, who faced off against five Danes. As they neared Worr bellowed out a wordless cry, forcing the Danes to pause and look over their shoulders to see who ran at them. This gave the beleaguered thegns the chance to close up and stride forward, and Ceric, at Worr’s shoulder, saw one of them at once find flesh in the Dane he had been fighting, and saw the Dane drop.
Ceric was raising his sword to attack the Dane closest to him who had whirled to Worr’s challenge. As he did he was hit by a crushing blow from behind.
Something smashed down upon the back of his right shoulder, doubling him over from the impact. He dropped to his left knee, his lowered sword tip piercing the grass he knelt on. He struggled to lift himself, expecting every moment for sword blade or skeggox to hit him in the back of the neck. Somehow he found his feet, using the edge of his shield to push himself up. The pain in his shoulder and upper back was such that he must stare at his sword blade to make it rise; he could not at first feel his arm. He heard Worr’s voice call out, three words: Ceric of Kilton, yelled as a rallying cry. Worr, battling a man trying to kill him, yet had voice to shout resolutely to Ceric.
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 39
